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POEMS 



COMPLETE EDITIONS 

OF THE 

WORKS OF MRS HEMANS. 



i. 

In One Volume, with Portrait and engraved title by Finden. 
Royal octavo, 12s. 6d. 

IJ. 

In Seven Volumes foolscap octavo, with Memoir by her Sister, 
Portrait, and Vignette title-pages, 35^. 

III. 

In Six Volumes pott octavo, 24J. 



POEMS 



BY 



FELICIA HEMANS 






WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
EDINBURGH AND LONDON & 
MDCCCLXVII 



.A' 
t7 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

ARABELLA STUART ..... I 

THE VOICE OF SPRING . . . .II 

THE MESSENGER BIRD . . . 14 

ELYSIUM . . . . . 15 

ENGLAND'S DEAD . . . . -19 

THE SOUND OF THE SEA . . . .21 

A DIRGE . . . . . .22 

CASABIANCA . . % . . . 23 

THE HOUR OF DEATH . . . • 2 5 

THE LOST PLEIAD . . . . .26 

THE TWO VOICES . . . . .27 

PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS TO THE ISLAND OF 

PLEASURE . . . . .29 

THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON . -31 

THE DEPARTED . . . . -33 

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD . . 35 

A SPIRIT'S RETURN . . . . 36 

PASSING AWAY . . . . -45 

DEATH AND THE WARRIOR . . . .46 



VI 



Contents. 



THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD 
THE ANGEL'S GREETING 
THE VIGIL OF ARMS 
THE VOICE OF THE WAVES . 
O YE VOICES .... 
MARGUERITE OF FRANCE 
THE VICTOR .... 
HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN . 
ANGEL VISITS 

THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP 
THE IVY SONG 
A SONG OF THE ROSE 
THE FAITH OF LOVE 

THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO 
WE RETURN NO MORE 
THE DIAL OF FLOWERS 
LAST RITES .... 
THE WRECK .... 
THE TRUMPET 

GERTRUDE; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH 
THE INVOCATION 
THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO 
GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE . 
FAR AWAY .... 
INVOCATION .... 
BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED 
THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW 
ENGLAND . 



93 



Contents. 



vn 



THE PALM-TREE 

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO 

THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION 

THE SUNBEAM 

THE DIVER . 

THE BETTER LAND . 

TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT 

THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE ABBEY 

TASSO'S CORONATION 

TO AN ORPHAN 

SADNESS AND MIRTH 

THE SILENT MULTITUDE 

NO MORE 

A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE 

THE DEATH-SONG pF ALCESTIS 

THE PALMER . 

DREAMS OF HEAVEN 

O YE HOURS . 

OH ! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING 

NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE 

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND 

THE FALL OF D'ASSAS 

THE CALL TO BATTLE 

THE LYRE AND FLOWER 

COME AWAY . 

EASTER-DAY IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD 

THE NAME OF ENGLAND 

A PRAYER OF AFFECTION 



Vlll 



Contents. 



A THOUGHT OF PARADISE . 

OUR DAILY PATHS . 

THE WATER-LILY 

THE HOUR OF PRAYER 

THE WAKENING 

THE FORSAKEN HEARTH 

THE WINGS OF THE DOVE . 

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND . 

THE STORM OF DELPHI 

IVAN THE CZAR 

THE DEATH-DAY OF KORNER 

THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE 

THE DESERTED HOUSE 

THE SONG OF NIGHT 

THE LYRE'S LAMENT 

THE SLEEPER . . 

A PARTING SONG 

WOMAN AND FAME . 

THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF . 

THE PRAYER FOR LIFE 

THE WELCOME TO DEATH . 

THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT-FLOWERS 

THE HOME OF LOVE 

THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT 

THE MUFFLED DRUM 

IF THOU HAST CRUSHED A FLOWER 

DIRGE AT SEA 



Contents. 



IX 



O YE VOICES GONE . 

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS 

DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION 

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT 

MOTHER'S LITANY BY THE SICKBED OF A CHILD 

NIGHT HYMN AT SEA 

THE ENGLISH BOY . 

HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS IN TIMES 

OF PERSECUTION . 
A penitent's RETURN 
LET US DEPART 

THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS . 
THE TWO MONUMENTS 
THE HUGUENOT'S FAREWELL 
THE RETURN 

THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD 
THE LAND OF DREAMS 
THE STRANGER'S HEART 
WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE 
THE MAGIC "GLASS 

THE RUIN .... 
THE VOICE OF THE WIND . 
THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH-SONG . 
THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT 
THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL 
THE STREAM SET FREE 
MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE 
OH! DROOP THOU NOT 



Contents. 



CATHEDRAL HYMN 

THE FESTAL HOUR . 

HAUNTED GROUND . 

KINDRED HEARTS 

THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS . 

THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL 

THE BOON OF MEMORY 

THE LADY OF PROVENCE 

nature's FAREWELL 

TRIUMPHANT MUSIC . 

SECOND-SIGHT . 

THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE . 

THE HAUNTED HOUSE 

FOR A PICTURE OF ST CECILIA ATTENDED P/ 

THE PROCESSION 

THE SUMMER'S CALL 

THE WANDERING WIND 

DIRGE . . . . 

THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK 

MUSIC AT A DEATHBED 

A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND 

COME HOME .... 

THE PARTING OF SUMMER . 

THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD 

THE CID'S FUNERAL PROCESSION 

THE TWO HOMES 

THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES 

TO THE MOUNTAIN WINDS . 



. 247 

. 25I 

• 255 

• 257 
. 258 
. 260 
. 262 

• 264 
. 27I 
■ 273 
. 274 
, 276 
. 278 

ANGELS 280 

. 282 

. 284 

. 285 

, 286 

. 288 

. 291 

• 293 
. 295 
. 296 
. 298 
. 300 

• 304 

• 305 

• 307 



Contents. 



XI 



THE LONELY BIRD . 

FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL 

OLD NORWAY . . 

NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS . 

THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF THE 

THE EFFIGIES 

PARTING WORDS 

THE IMAGE IN THE HEART 

CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL . 

THE PARTING SHIP . 

THE BEINGS OF THE MIND . 

THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS . 

THE SUBTERRANEAN STREAM 

TASSO AND HIS SISTER 

LET HER DEPART 

O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS . 

THE BIRD AT SEA . 

MUSIC FROM SHORE . 

PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY 

A poet's DYING HYMN 

SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN 

JUANA .... 

THE REVELLERS 

SABBATH SONNET 



NILE 



309 
3IO 

311 
312 

313 
315 
317 
319 
321 

323 

325 
327 
329 
331 

333 
334 
335 
336 
337 
339 
343 
347 
35o 
352 



POEMS. 



ARABELLA STUART. 



[" The Lady Arabella," as she has been frequently entitled, was 
descended from Margaret, the eldest daughter of Henry VII., and 
consequently allied by birth to Elizabeth as well as James I. This 
affinity to the throne proved the misfortune of her life, as the jealousies 
which it constantly excited in her royal relatives, who were anxious to 
prevent her marrying, shut her out from the enjoyment of that domestic 
happiness which her heart appears to have so fervently desired. By a 
secret but early discovered union with William Seymour, son of Lord 
Beauchamp, she alarmed the cabinet of James, and the wedded lovers 
were immediately placed in separate confinement. From this they 
found means to concert a romantic plan of escape ; and having won 
over a female attendant, by whose assistance she was disguised in male 
attire, Arabella, though faint from recent sickness and suffering, stole 
out in the night, and at last reached an appointed spot, where a boat 
and servants were in waiting. She embarked ; and at break of day a 
French vessel engaged to receive her was discovered and gained. As 
Seymour, however, had not yet arrived, she was desirous that the vessel 
should lie at anchor for him ; but this wish was overruled by her com- 
panions, who, contrary to her entreaties, hoisted sail, " which," says 
DTsraeli, "occasioned so fatal a termination to this romantic adven- 
ture. Seymour, indeed, had escaped from the Tower ; he reached the 
wharf, and found his confidential man waiting with a boat, and arrived 
A 



2 Arabella Stuart. 

at Lee. The time passed ; the waves were rising ; Arabella was not 
there ; but in the distance he descried a vessel. Hiring a fisherman to 
take him on board, he discovered, to his grief, on hailing it, that it was 
not the French ship charged with his Arabella ; in despair and confu- 
sion he found another ship from Newcastle, which for a large sum 
altered its course, and landed him in Flanders." Arabella, meantime, 
whilst imploring her attendants to linger, and earnestly looking out for 
the expected boat of her husband, was overtaken in Calais Roads by a 
vessel in the king's service, and brought back to a captivity, under the 
suffering of which her mind and constitution gradually sank. "What 
passed in that dreadful imprisonment cannot perhaps be recovered for 
authentic history, but enough is known — that her mind grew impaired, 
that she finally lost her reason, and, if the duration of her imprison- 
ment was short, that it was only terminated by her death. Some effu- 
sions, often begun and never ended, written and erased, incoherent and 
rational, yet remain among her papers." — D'Israeli's Curiosities of 
Literature.} 

" And is not love in vain 
Torture enough without a living tomb ? " — Byron. 

" Fermossi aljin il cor che balzo tanto" — Pindemonte. 



,r TWAS but a dream ! I saw the stag leap free, 

X Under the boughs where early birds were singing ; 
I stood o'ershadowed by the greenwood tree, 
And heard, it seemed, a sudden bugle ringing 
Far through a royal forest. Then the fawn 
Shot, like a gleam of light, from grassy lawn 
To secret covert ; and the smooth turf shook, 
And lilies quivered by the glade's lone brook, 
And young leaves trembled, as, in fleet career, 
A princely band, with horn, and hound, and spear, 
Like a rich masque swept forth. I saw the dance 
Of their white plumes, that bore a silvery glance 
Into the deep wood's heart ; and all passed by 
Save one — I met the smile of one clear eye, 



Arabella Stuart. 

Flashing out joy to mine. Yes, thou wert there, 
Seymour ! A soft wind blew the clustering hair 
Back from thy gallant brow, as thou didst rein 
Thy courser, turning from that gorgeous train, 
And fling, methought, thy hunting-spear away, 
And, lightly graceful in thy green array, 
Bound to my side. And we, that met and parted 

Ever in dread of some dark watchful power, 
Won back to childhood's trust, and fearless-hearted, 

Blent the glad fulness of our thoughts that hour 
Even like the mingling of sweet streams, beneath 
Dim woven leaves, and midst the floating breath 
Of hidden forest-flowers. 



II. 

'Tis past ! I wake, 
A captive, and alone, and far from thee, 
My love and friend ! Yet fostering, for thy sake, 

A quenchless hope of happiness to be ; 
And feeling still my woman-spirit strong, 
In the deep faith which lifts from earthly wrong 
A heavenward glance. I know, I know our love 
Shall yet call gentle angels from above, 
By its undying fervour, and prevail — 
Sending a breath, as of the spring's first gale, 
Through hearts now cold ; and, raising its bright face, 
With a free gush of sunny tears, erase 
The characters of anguish. In this trust, 
I bear, I strive, I bow not to the dust, 
That I may bring thee back no faded form, 
No bosom chilled and blighted by the storm, 
But all my youth's first treasures, when we meet, 
Making past sorrow, by communion, sweet. 



Arabella Stuart. 

in. 

And thou too art in bonds ! Yet droop thou not, 

my beloved ! there is one hopeless lot, 
But one, and that not ours. Beside the dead 
There sits the grief that mantles up its head, 
Loathing the laughter and proud pomp of light, 
When darkness, from the vainly doting sight 
Covers its beautiful ! If thou wert gone 

To the grave's bosom, with thy radiant brow — 
If thy deep- thrilling voice, with that low tone 

Of earnest tenderness, which now, even now, 
Seems floating through my soul, were music taken 
For ever from this world — oh ! thus forsaken 
Could I bear on ? Thou livest, thou livest, thou'rt mine ! 
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine, 
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn, 
Sit a lone watcher for the day's return. 

IV. 

And lo ! the joy that cometh with the morning, 
Brightly victorious o'er the hours of care ! 

1 have not watched in vain, serenely scorning 

The wild and busy whispers of despair ! 
Thou hast sent tidings, as of heaven — I wait 

The hour, the sign, for blessed flight to thee. 
Oh ! fpr the skylark's wing that seeks its mate 

As a star shoots ! — but on the breezy sea 
We shall meet soon. To think of such an hour ! 

Will not my heart, o'erburdened by its bliss, 
Faint and give way within me, as a flower 

Borne down and perishing by noontide's kiss ? 
Yet shall Ifear that lot — the perfect rest, 
The full deep joy of dying on thy breast, 



Arabella Stuart. \ 

After long suffering won? So rich a close 
Too seldom crowns with peace affection's woes. 

v. 

Sunset ! I tell each moment. From the skies 
The last red splendour floats along my wall, 

Like a king's banner ! Now it melts, it dies ! 
I see one star — I hear — 'twas not the call, 

Th' expected voice ; my quick heart throbbed too soon. 

I must keep vigil till yon rising moon 

Shower down less golden light. Beneath her beam 

Through my lone lattice poured, I sit and dream 

Of summer lands afar, where holy love, 

Under the vine or in the citron grove, 

May breathe from terror. 

Now the night grows deep, 

And silent as its clouds, and full of sleep. 

I hear my veins beat. Hark ! a bell's slow chime ! 

My heart strikes with it. Yet again — 'tis time ! 

A step ! — a voice ! — or but a rising breeze ? 

Hark ! — haste ! — I come to meet thee on the seas ! 



VI. 

Now never more, oh ! never, in the worth 
Of its pure cause, let sorrowing love on earth 
Trust fondly — never more ! The hope is crushed 
That lit my life, the voice within me hushed 
That spoke sweet oracles; and I return 
To lay my youth, as in a burial urn, 
Where sunshine may not find it. All is lost ! 
No tempest met our barks — no billow tossed ; 
Yet were they severed, even as we must be, 
That so have loved, so striven our hearts to free 



6 Arabella Stuart. 

From their close coiling fate ! In vain — in vain ! 
The dark links meet, and clasp themselves again, 
And press out life. Upon the deck I stood, 
And a white sail came gliding o'er the flood, 
Like some proud bird of ocean ; then mine eye 
Strained out, one moment earlier to descry 
The form it ached for, and the bark's career • 
Seemed slow to that fond yearning : it drew near, 
Fraught with our foes ! What boots it to recall 
The strife, the tears ? Once more a prison wall 
Shuts the green hills and woodlands from my sight, 
And joyous glance of waters to the light, 
And thee, my Seymour ! — thee ! 

I will not sink ! 

Thou, thou hast rent the heavy chain that bound thee ! 
And this shall be my strength — the joy to think 

That thou may'st wander with heaven's breath around 
thee, 
And all the laughing sky ! This thought shall yet 
Shine o'er my heart a radiant amulet, 
Guarding it from despair. Thy bonds are broken ; 
And unto me, I know, thy true love's token 
Shall one day be deliverance, though the years 
Lie dim between, o'erhung with mists of tears. 

VII. 
My friend ! my friend ! where art thou ? Day by do y, 
Gliding like some dark mournful stream away, 
My silent youth flows from me. Spring, the while, 

Comes and rains beauty on the kindling boughs 
Round hall and hamlet ; summer with her smile 

Fills the green forest; young hearts breathe their vows ; 
Brothers long parted meet; fair children rise 
Round the glad board ; hope laughs from loving eyes : 



Arabella Stuart. 

All this is in the world ! — these joys lie sown, 
The dew of every path ! On one alone 
Their freshness may not fall — the stricken deer 
Dying of thirst with all the waters near. 



Ye are from dingle and fresh glade, ye flowers ! 

By some kind hand to cheer my dungeon sent ; 
O'er you the oak shed down the summer showers, 

And the lark's nest was where your bright cups bent, 
Quivering to breeze and raindrop, like the sheen 
Of twilight stars. On you heaven's eye hath been 
Through the leaves pouring its dark sultry blue 
Into your glowing hearts ; the bee to you 
Hath murmured, and the rill. My soul grows faint 
With passionate yearning, as its quick dreams paint 
Your haunts by dell and stream — the green, the free, 
The full of all sweet sound — the shut from me ! 

IX. 

There went a swift bird singing past my cell 

O Love and Freedom ! ye are lovely things ! 
With you the peasant on the hills may dwell, 

And by the streams. But I — the blood of kings, 
A proud unmingling river, through my veins 
Flows in lone brightness, and its gifts are chains ! 
Kings ! — I had silent visions of deep bliss, 
Leaving their thrones far distant ; and for this 
I am cast under their triumphal car, 
An insect to be crushed ! Oh ! heaven is far — 
Earth pitiless ! 

Dost thou forget me, Seymour? I am proved 
So long, so sternly ! Seymour, my beloved ! 



8 Arabella Stuart. 

There are such tales of holy marvels done 

By strong affection, of deliverance won 

Through its prevailing power ! Are these things told 

Till the young weep with rapture, and the old 

Wonder, yet dare not doubt; and thou ! oh, thou ! 

Dost thou forget me in my hope's decay ? — 
Thou canst not ! Through the silent night, even now, 

I, that need prayer so much, awake and pray 
Still first for thee. O gentle, gentle friend ! 
How shall I bear this anguish to the end ? 



Aid ! — comes there yet no aid ? The voice of blood 

Passes heaven's gate, even ere the crimson flood 

Sinks through the greensward ! Is there not a cry 

From the wrung heart, of power, through agony, 

To pierce the clouds ? Hear, Mercy ! — hear me ! None 

That bleed and weep beneath the smiling sun 

Have heavier cause ! Yet hear ! — my soul grows dark ! 

Who hears the last shriek from the sinking bark 

On the mid seas, and with the storm alone, 

And bearing to the abyss, unseen, unknown, 

Its freight of human hearts ? Th' overmastering wave ! 

Who shall tell how it rushed — and none to save ! 

Thou hast forsaken me ! I feel, I know, 
There would be rescue if this were not so. 
Thou'rt at the chase, thou'rt at the festive board, 
Thou'rt where the red wine free and high is poured, 
Thou'rt where the dancers meet ! A magic glass 
Is set within my soul, and proud shapes pass, 
Flushing it o'er with pomp from bower and hall : 
I see one shadow, stateliest there of all — 
Thine! What dost thou amidst the bright and fair, 
Whispering light words, and mocking my despair ? 






Arabella Stuart. 

It is not well of thee ! My love was more 
Than fiery song may breathe, deep thought explore ; 
And there thou smilest, while my heart is dying, 
With all its blighted hopes around it lying : 
Even thou, on whom they hung their last green leaf- 
Yet smile, smile on ! too bright art thou for grief ! 



Death ! What ! is death a locked and treasured thing, 
Guarded by swords of fire ? a hidden spring, 
A fabled fruit, that I should thus endure, 
As if the world within me held no cure ? 

W 7 herefore not spread free wings Heaven, heaven ! 

control 
These thoughts ! — they rush — I look into my soul 
As down a gulf, and tremble at the array 
Of fierce forms crowding it ! Give strength to pray ! 
So shall their dark host pass. 

The storm is stilled. 

Father in Heaven ! thou, only thou, canst sound 
The heart's great deep, with floods of anguish filled, 

For human line too fearfully profound. 
Therefore, forgive, my Father ! if thy child, 
Rocked on its heaving darkness, hath grown wild, 
And sinned in her despair ! It well may be 
That thou would' st lead my spirit back to thee, 
By the crushed hope too long on this world poured — 
The stricken love which hath perchance adored 
A mortal in thy place ! Now let me strive 
With thy strong arm no more ! Forgive, forgive ! 
Take me to peace ! 

And peace at last is nigh. 
. A sign is on my brow, a token sent 



io Arabella Stuart 

Th' o'erwearied dust from home : no breeze flits by, 
But calls me with a strange sweet whisper, blent 
Of many mysteries. 

Hark ! the warning tone 
Deepens — its word is Death I Alone, alone, 
And sad in youth, but chastened, I depart, 
Bowing to heaven. Yet, yet my woman's heart 
Shall wake a spirit and a power to bless, 
Even in this hour's o'ershadowing fearfulness, 
Thee, its first love ! O tender still, and true ! 
Be it forgotten if mine anguish threw 
Drops from its bitter fountain on thy name, 
Though but a moment ! 

Now, with fainting frame, 
With soul just lingering on the flight begun, 
To bind for thee its last dim thoughts in one, 
I bless thee ! Peace be on thy noble head, 
Years of bright fame, when I am with the dead ! 
I bid this prayer survive me, and retain 
Its might, again to bless thee, and again ! 
Thou hast been gathered into my dark fate 
Too much ; too long, for my sake, desolate 
Hath been thine exiled youth : but now take back, 
From dying hands, thy freedom, and retrack 
(After a few kind tears for her whose days 
Went out in dreams of thee) the sunny ways 
Of hope, and find thou happiness ! Yet send 
Even then, in silent hours, a thought, dear friend ! 
Down to my voiceless chamber ; for thy love 
Hath been to me all gifts of earth above, 
Though bought with burning tears! It is the sting 
Of death to leave that vainly-precious thing 



The Voice of Spring. 1 1 

In this cold world ! What were it, then, if thou, 
With thy fond eyes, wert gazing on me now ? 
Too keen a pang ! Farewell ! and yet once more, 
Farewell ! The passion of long years I pour 
Into that word ! Thou hear'st not — but the woe 
And fervour of its tones may one day flow 
To thy heart's holy place : there let them dwell. 
We shall o'ersweep the grave to meet. Farewell ! 



THE VOICE OF SPRING. 

I COME, I come ! ye have called me long — 
I come o'er the mountains with light and song ! 
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth 
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
By the primrose-stars in the shadowy grass, 
By the green leaves opening as I pass. 

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers 
By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers, 
And the ancient graves and the fallen fanes 
Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains ; — 
But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, 
To speak of the ruin or the tomb ! 

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, 

And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, 

The fisher is out on the sunny sea, 

And the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free, 

And the pine has a fringe of softer green, 

And the moss looks bright where my foot hath been. 



1 2 The Voice of Spring. 

I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, 
And called out each voice of the deep blue sky ; 
From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, 
In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, 
To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, 
When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. 

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain, 
They are sweeping on to the silvery main, 
They are flashing down from the mountain brows, 
They are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs, 
They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, 
And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! 

Come forth, O ye children of gladness ! come ! 
Where the violets lie may be now your home. 
Ye of the rose-lip and dew-bright eye, 
And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly ! 
With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, 
Come forth to the sunshine — I may not stay. 

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, 
The waters are sparkling in grove and glen ! 
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, 
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth ! 
Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, 
And youth is abroad in my green domains. 

But ye ! — ye are changed since ye met me last ! 
There is something bright from your features passed ! 
There is that come over your brow and eye 
Which speaks of a world where the flowers must die ! 
— Ye smile ! but your smile hath a dimness yet : 
( )h ! what have you looked on since last we met ? 



The Voice of Spring. 13 

Ye are changed, ye are changed ! — and I see not here 
All whom I saw in the vanished year ! 
There were graceful heads, with their ringlets bright, 
Which tossed in the breeze with a play of light ; 
There were eyes in whose glistening laughter lay 
No faint remembrance of dull decay ! 

There were steps that flew o'er the cowslip's head, 

As if for a banquet all earth were spread ; 

There were voices that rang through the sapphire sky, 

And had not a sound of mortality ! 

Are they gone ? is their mirth from the mountains passed ? 

Ye have looked on death since ye met me last ! 

I know whence the shadow comes o'er you now — 
Ye have strewn the dust on the sunny brow ! 
Ye have given the lovely to earth's embrace — 
She hath taken the fairest of beauty's race, 
With their laughing eyes and their festal crown : 
They are gone from amongst you in silence down ! 

They are gone from amongst you, the young and fair, 
Ye have lost the gleam of their shining hair ! 
But I know of a land where there falls no blight — 
I shall find them there, with their eyes of light ! 
Where Death midst the blooms of the morn may dwell, 
I tarry no longer — farewell, farewell ! 

The summer is coming, on soft winds borne — 

Ye may press the grape, ye may bind the corn ! 

For me, I depart to a brighter shore — 

Ye are marked by care, ye are mine no more ; 

I go where the loved who have left you dwell, 

And the flowers are not Death's. Fare ye well, farewell ! 



t 4 The Messenger Bird, 



THE MESSENGER BIRD. 

[Some of the native Brazilians pay great veneration to a certain bird 
that sings mournfully in the night-time. They say it is a messenger 
which their deceased friends and relations have sent, and that it brings 
them news from the other world. — See Picart's Ceremonies and Reli- 
gions Custo7iis.~\ 

THOU art come from the spirits' land, thou bird ! 
Thou art come from the spirits' land : 
Through the dark pine grove let thy voice be heard, 
And tell of the shadowy band ! 



We know that the bowers are green and fair 

In the light of that summer shore; 
And we know that the friends we have lost are there. 

They are there — and they weep no more ! 

And we know they have quenched their fevers thirst 
From the fountain of youth ere now, 

For there must the stream in its freshness burst 
Which none may find below. 

And we know that they will not be lured to earth 

From the land of deathless flowers, 
By the feast, or the dance, or the song of mirth, 

Though their hearts were once with ours : 

Though they sat with us by the night-fire's blaze, 

And bent with us the bow, 
And heard the tales of our fathers' days, 

Which are told to others now ! 






Elysium. 1 5 

But tell us, thou bird of the solemn strain ! 

Can those who have loved forget ? 
We call — and they answer not again : 

Do they love — do they love us yet ? 

Doth the warrior think of his brother tfwe, 

And the father of his child ? 
And the chief of those that were wont to share 

His wandering through the wild ? 

We call them far through the silent night, 
And they speak not from cave or hill ; 

We know, thou bird ! that their land is bright, 
But say, do they love there still ? 



ELYSIUM. 

['* In the Elysium of the ancients, we find none but heroes and per- 
sons who had either been fortunate or distinguished on earth ; the 
children, and apparently the slaves and lower classes — that is to say, 
Poverty, Misfortune, and Innocence — were banished to the infernal 
Regions." — Chateaubriand, Genie du Christia7iisme.~\ 

FAIR wert thou in the dreams 
Of elder time, thou land of glorious flowers 
And summer winds and low-toned silvery streams, 
Dim with the shadows of thy laurel bowers, 

Where, as they passed, bright hours 
Left no faint sense of parting, such as clings 
To earthly love, and joy in loveliest things ! 



1 6 Ely shun. 

Fair wert thou, with the light 
On thy blue hills and sleepy waters cast 
From purple skies ne'er deepening into night, 
Yet soft, as if each moment were their last 

Of glory, fading fast 
Along the mountains ! — but thy golden day 
Was not as those that warn us of decay. 

And ever, through thy shades, 
A swell of deep ^Eolian sound went by 
From fountain-voices in their secret glades, 
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply 

To summer's breezy sigh, 
And young leaves trembling to the wind's light breath, 
Which ne'er had touched them with a hue of death ! 

And the transparent sky 
Rang as a dome, all thrilling to the strain 
Of harps that midst the woods made harmony, 
Solemn and sweet ; yet troubling not the brain 

With dreams and yearnings vain, 
And dim remembrances, that still draw birth 
From the bewildering music of the earth. 

And who, with silent tread, 
Moved o'er the plains of waving asphodel ? 
Called from the dim procession of the dead, 
Who midst the shadowy amaranth-bowers might dwell 

And listen to the swell 
Of those majestic hymn-notes, and inhale 
The spirit wandering in the immortal gale ? 

They of the sword, whose praise, 
With the bright wine, at nations' feasts went round ! 



Elysium. 1 7 

They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays 

Forth on the winds had sent their mighty sound, 

And in all regions found 
Their echoes midst the mountains ! — and become 
In man's deep heart as voices of his home ! 

They of the daring thought ! 
Daring and powerful, yet to dust allied — 
Whose flight through stars, and seas, and depths, had sought 
The soul's far birthplace — but without a guide ! 

Sages and seers, who died, 
And left the world their high mysterious dreams, 
Born midst the olive woods by Grecian streams. 

But the most loved are they 
Of whom fame speaks not with her clarion voice, 
In regal halls ! The shades o'erhang their way ; 
The vale, with its deep fountains, is their choice, 

And gentle hearts rejoice 
Around their steps ; till silently they die, 
As a stream shrinks from summer's burning eye. 

And these — of whose abode, 
Midst her green valleys, earth retained no trace, 
Save a flower springing from their burial-sod, 
A shade of sadness on some kindred face, 

A dim and vacant place 
In some sweet home ; — thou hadst no wreaths for these, 
Thou sunny land ! with all thy deathless trees ! 

The peasant at his door 
Might sink to die when vintage feasts were spread, 
And songs on every wind ! From thy bright shore 
No lovelier vision floated round his head — 

Thou wert for nobler dead ! 
B 



1 8 Elysium. 

He heard the bounding steps which round him fell, 
And sighed to bid the festal sun farewell ! 

The slave, whose very tears 
Were a forbidden luxury, and whose breast 
Kept the mute woes and burning thoughts of years, 
As embers in a burial-urn compressed ; 

He might not be thy guest ! 
No gentle breathings from thy distant sky 
Came o'er his path, and whispered " Liberty ! " 

Calm, on its leaf-strewn bier, 
Unlike a gift of Nature to Decay, 
Too rose-like still, too beautiful, too dear, 
The child at rest before the mother lay, 

E'en so to pass away, 
With its bright smile ! — Elysium ! what wert thou 
To her, who wept o'er that young slumberer's brow ? 

Thou hadst no home, green land ! 
For the fair creature from her bosom gone, 
With life's fresh flowers just opening in its hand, 
And all the lovely thoughts and dreams unknown, 

Which in its clear eye shone 
Like spring's first wakening ! but that light was past- 
Where went the dewdrop swept before the blast ? 

Not where thy soft winds played, 
Not where thy waters lay in glassy sleep ! 
Fade with thy bowers, thou Land of Visions, fade ! 
From thee no voice came o'er the gloomy deep, 

And bade man cease to weep ! 
Fade, with the amaranth plain, the myrtle grove, 
Which could not yield one hope to sorrowing love ! 



England's Dead 



"6 



ENGLAND'S DEAD. 

SON of the Ocean Isle! 
Where sleep your mighty dead ? 
Show me what high and stately pile 
Is reared o'er Glory's bed. 

Go, stranger ! track the deep — 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 

On Egypt's burning plains, 
By the pyramid o'erswayed, 
With fearful power the noonday reigns, 
And the palm-trees yield no shade; — 

But let the angry sun 
From heaven look fiercely red, 
Unfelt by those whose task is done ! — 
There slumber England's dead. 

The hurricane hath might 
Along the Indian shore, 
And far by Ganges' banks at night 
Is heard the tiger's roar ; — 

But let the sound roll on ! 
It hath no tone of dread 
For those that from their toils are gone, — 
There slumber England's dead. 



19 



20 England's Dead. 

Loud rush the torrent-floods 
The western wilds among, 
And free, in green Columbia's woods, 
The hunter's bow is strung; — 

But let the floods rush on ! 
Let the arrow's flight be sped ! 
Why should they reck whose task is done ?- 
There slumber England's dead. 

The mountain storms rise high 
In the snowy Pyrenees, 
And toss the pine-boughs through the sky 
Like rose-leaves on the breeze ; — 

But let the storm rage on ! 
Let the fresh wreaths be shed ! 
For the Roncesvalles' field is won, — 
There slumber England's dead. 

On the frozen deep's repose 
'Tis a dark and dreadful hour, 
When round the ship the ice-fields close, 
And the northern night- clouds lower ;- 

But let the ice drift on ! 
Let the cold blue desert spread ! 
Their course with mast and flag is done, — 
Even there sleep England's dead. 

The warlike of the isles, 
The men of field and wave ! 
Are not the rocks their funeral piles, 
The seas and shores their grave ? 



The Sound of the Sea. 2 1 

Go, stranger ! track the deep — 
Free, free the white sail spread ! 
Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep, 
Where rest not England's dead. 



THE SOUND OF THE SEA. 

THOU art sounding on, thou mighty sea ! 
For ever and the same ; 
The ancient rocks yet ring to thee — 
Those thunders naught can tame. 

Oh ! many a glorious voice is gone 

From the rich bowers of earth, 
And hushed is many a lovely one 

Of mournfulness or mirth. 

The Dorian flute that sighed of yore 

Along the wave, is still ; 
The harp of Judah peals no more 

On Zion's awful hill. 

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord 

That breathed the mystic tone ; 
And the songs at Rome's high triumphs poured 

Are with her eagles flown. 

And mute the Moorish horn that rang 

O'er stream and mountain free ; 
And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang 

Hath died in Galilee. 



22 A Dirge. 

But thou art swelling on, thou deep ! 

Through many an olden clime, 
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep 

Until the close of time. 

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice 

To every wind and sky, 
And all our earth's green shores rejoice 

In that one harmony. 

It fills the noontide's calm profound, 

The sunset's heaven of gold ; 
And the still midnight hears the sound. 

Even as first it rolled. 

Let there be silence, deep and strange, 

Where sceptred cities rose ! 
Thou speak'st of One who doth not change — 

So may our hearts repose. 



A DIRGE. 

CALM on the bosom of thy God, 
Young spirit ! rest thee now ! 
Even while with us thy footstep trod, 
His seal was on thy brow. 

Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 

Soul, to its place on high ! — 
They that have seen thy look in death, 

No more may fear to die. 



Casablanca. 23 

Lone are the paths, and sad the bowers, 

Whence thy meek smile is gone ; 
But oh ! — a brighter home than ours, 

In heaven, is now thine own. 



CASABIANCA. 

[Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Ad- 
miral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle of the Nile) after 
the ship had taken fire,' and all the guns had been abandoned ; and 
perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached 
the powder.] 

THE boy stood on the burning deck 
Whence all but he had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm — 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on — he would not go 

Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud : — " Say, father ! say 

If yet my task is done ! " 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 



24 Casabianca. 

1 ' Speak, father ! " once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone !" 
And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames rolled on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair, 
And looked from that lone post of death 

In still yet brave despair; 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

" My father! must I stay?" 
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, 
They caught the flag on high, 

And streamed above the gallant child 
Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder-sound — 
The boy — oh ! where was he ? 

Ask of the winds that far around 
With fragments strewed the sea ! — 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part ; 

But the noblest thing which perished there 
Was that young faithful heart ! 



The Hour of Death. 2 5 



THE HOUR OF DEATH. 

" II est dans la Nature d' aimer a se livrer a Videe meme qu'on 
redoute." — Corinne. 



L 



EAVES have their time to fall, 

And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 
And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 



Day is for mortal care, 
Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 

Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer- 
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 

The banquet hath its hour — 
Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine ; 

There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, 
A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 

Youth and the opening rose 
May look like things too glorious for decay, 

And smile at thee — but thou art not of those 
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And stars to set — but all, 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death I 

We know when moons shall wane, 
When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, 

When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain- 
But who shall teach us when to look for thee ! 



26 The Lost Pleiad. 

Is it when spring's first gale 
Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? 
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — 
They have one season — all are ours to die ! 

Thou art where billows foam, 
Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 

Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
And the world calls us forth — and thou art there. 

Thou art where friend meets friend, 
Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 

Leaves have their time to fall, 
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, 

And' stars to set — but all — 
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! 



THE LOST PLEIAD. 

"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more &elo7v." — Byron. 

AND is there glory from the heavens departed ? 
O void unmarked ! — thy sisters of the sky 
Still hold their place on high, 
Though from its rank thine orb so long hath started, 
Thou, that no more art seen of mortal eye ! 



The Two Voices. 27 

Hath the night lost a gem, the regal night ? 

She wears her crown of old magnificence, 
Though thou art exiled thence — 
No desert seems to part those urns of light, 

Midst the far depths of purple gloom intense. 

They rise in joy, the starry myriads burning — 
The shepherd greets them on his mountains free ; 
And from the silvery sea 

To them the sailor's wakeful eye is turning — 

Unchanged they rise, they have not" mourned for thee. 

Couldst thou be shaken from thy radiant place, 
Even as a dewdrop from the myrtle spray, 
Swept by the wind away? 

Wert thou not peopled by some glorious race, 
And was there power to smite them with decay ? 

Why, who shall talk of thrones, of sceptres riven ? 

Bowed be our hearts to think on what we are, 
When from its height afar 
A world sinks thus — and yon majestic heaven 

Shines not the less for that one vanished star ! 



THE TWO VOICES. 

TWO solemn Voices, in a funeral strain, 
Met as rich sunbeams and dark bursts of rain 
Meet in . the sky : 
" Thou art gone hence ! " one sang ; " our light is flown, 
Our beautiful, that seemed too much our own 
Ever to die ! 



28 The Two Voices. 

" Thou art gone hence ! — our joyous hills among 
Never again to pour thy soul in song, 

When spring-flowers rise ! 
Never the friend's familiar step to meet 
With loving laughter, and the welcome sweet 

Of thy glad eyes." 

" Thou art gone home, gone home!" then, high arid clear, 
Warbled that other Voice. " Thou hast no tear 

Again to shed; 
Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain ; 
Never, weighed down by memory's clouds, again 

To bow thy head. 

" Thou art gone home ! O early crowned and blest ! 
Where could the love of that deep heart find rest 

With aught below ? 
Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, 
All the bright rose-leaves drop from life away — 

Thrice blessed to go ! " 

Yet sighed again that breeze-like Voice of grief — 
" Thou art gone hence ! Alas that aught so brief 

So loved should be ! 
Thou tak'st our summer hence ! — the flower, the tone, 
The music of our being, all in one, 

Depart with thee ! 

* ' Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled ! 
Canst thou be of the dead, the awful dead — 

The dark unknown ? 
Yes ! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall, 
Never again to light up hearth or hall, 

Thy smile is gone ! " 



Psyche Borne by Zephyrs, 29 

" Home, home!'''' once more the exulting voice arose : 
" Thou art gone home ! — from that divine repose 

Never to roam ! 
Never to say farewell, to weep in vain, 
To read of change, in eyes beloved, again — 

Thou art gone home ! 

' ' By the bright waters now thy lot is cast — 
Joy for thee, happy friend ! thy bark hath past 

The rough sea's foam ! 
Now the long yearnings of thy soul are stilled, 
Home ! home ! — thy peace is one, thy heart is filled : 

Thou art gone home ! " 



PSYCHE BORNE BY ZEPHYRS TO THE 
ISLAND OF PLEASURE. 



[Written for a picture in which Psyche, on her flight upwards, is re- 
presented looking back sadly and anxiously to the earth.] 



FEARFULLY and mournfully 
Thou bidd'st the earth farewell ; 
And yet thou'rt passing, loveliest one ! 
In a brighter land to dwell. 



Ascend, ascend rejoicing ! 

The sunshine of that shore 
Around thee, as a glorious robe, 

Shall stream for evermore. 



30 Psyche Borne by Zephyrs. 

The breezy music wandering 
There through th' Elysian sky, 

Hath no deep tone that seems to float 
From a happier time gone by. 

And there the day's last crimson 
Gives no sad memories birth, 

No thought of dead or distant friends, 
Or partings — as on earth. 

Yet fearfully and mournfully 
Thou bidd'st that earth farewell, 

Although thou'rt passing, loveliest one ! 
In a brighter land to dwell. 

A land where all is deathless — 
The sunny waves repose, 

The wood with its rich melodies, 
The summer and its rose : 

A land that sees no parting, 
That hears no sound of sighs, 

That waits thee with immortal air — 
Lift, lift those anxious eyes ! 

Oh ! how like thee, thou trembler ! 

Man's spirit fondly clings 
With timid love, to this, its world 

Of old familiar things ! 

We pant, we thirst for fountains 
That gush not here below ! 

On, on we toil, allured by dreams 
Of the living water's flow : 



The Storm-Painter in his Dungeon, 3 1 

We pine for kindred natures 

To mingle with our own ; 
For communings more full and high 

Than aught by mortal known : 

We strive with brief aspirings 

Against our bonds in vain ; 
Yet summoned to be free at last, 

We shrink — and clasp our chain ; 

And fearfully and mournfully 

We bid the earth farewell, 
Though passing from its mists, like thee, 

In a brighter world to dwell. 



THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON. 

[Pietro Mulier, called II Tempesta, from his surprising pictures of 
storms.] 

" Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal 1 ? 
Are ye like those that shake the human breast ? 
Or do yejind at length, like eagles, some high nest ? " 

— Childe Harold. 

MIDNIGHT, and silence deep ! 
The air is filled with sleep, 
With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath ; 
The fixed and solemn stars 
Gleam through my dungeon-bars — 
Wake, rushing winds ! this breezeless calm is death ! 

Ye watch-fires of the skies ! 
The stillness of your eyes 
Looks too intensely through my troubled soul ; 



3 2 The Storm-Painter in his Dungeon. 

I feel this weight of rest 
An earth-load on my breast — 
Wake, rushing winds, awake I and, dark clouds, roll ! 

I am your own, your child, 

O ye, the fierce, and wild, 
And kingly tempests ! — will ye not arise ? 

Hear the bold spirit's voice, 

That knows not to rejoice 
But in the peal of your strong harmonies. 

By sounding ocean-waves, 

And dim Calabrian caves, 
And flashing torrents, I have been your mate ; 

And with the rocking pines 

Of the olden Apennines, 
In your dark path stood fearless and elate. 

Your lightnings were as rods, 

That smote the deep abodes 
Of thought and vision — and the stream gushed free ; 

Come ! that my soul again 

May swell to burst its chain — 
Bring me the music of the sweeping sea ! 

Within me dwells a flame, 

An eagle caged and tame, 
Till called forth by the harping of the blast ; 

Then is its triumph's hour, 

It springs to sudden power, 
As mounts the billow o'er the quivering mast. 

Then, then, the canvass o'er 
With hurried hand I pour 
The lava-waves and gusts of my own soul ! 



The Departed. 33 

Kindling to fiery life 
Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife — 
Wake, rushing winds, awake ! and, dark clouds, roll ! 

Wake, rise ! the reed may bend, 

The shivering leaf descend, 
The forest branch give way before your might ; 

But I, your strong compeer, 

Call, summon, wait you here — 
Answer, my spirit ! — answer, storm and night ! 



THE DEPARTED. 

" Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerftil of the earth — the wise — the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers oj ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre" — Bryant. 

AND shrink ye from the way 
To the spirit's distant shore ? — 
Earth's mightiest men, in armed array, 
Are thither gone before. 

The warrior-kings, whose banner 

Flew far as eagles fly, 
They are gone where swords avail them not, 

From the feast ot victory. 

And the seers who sat of yore 

By Orient palm or wave, 
They have passed with all their starry lore — 

Can ye still fear the grave ? 
c 



34 The Departed. 

We fear ! we fear ! The sunshine 

Is joyous to behold, 
And we reck not of the buried kings, 

Nor the awful seers of old. 

Ye shrink ! The bards whose lays 
Have made your deep hearts burn, 

They have left the sun, and the voice of praise, 
For the land whence none return. 

And the beautiful, whose record 

Is the verse that cannot die, 
They too are gone, with their glorious bloom, 

From the love of human eye. 

Would ye not join that throng 
Of the earth's departed flowers, 

And the masters of the mighty song, 
In their far and fadeless bowers ? 

Those songs are high and holy, 
But they vanquish not our fear : 

Not from our path those flowers are gone — 
We fain would linger here ! 

linger then yet awhile, 

As the last leaves on the bough ! — 
Ye have loved the light of many a smile 

That is taken from you now. 

There have been sweet singing voices 
In your walks, that now are still ; 

There are seats left void in your earthly homes, 
Which none again may fill. 



A* Spirits Return. 37 

Come while the gorgeous mysteries of the sky 

Fused in the crimson sea of sunset lie ; 

Come to the woods, where all strange wandering sound 

Is mingled into harmony profound ; 

Where the leaves thrill with spirit, while the wind 

Fills with a viewless being, unconfined, 

The trembling reeds and fountains. Our own dell, 

With its green dimness and ^Eolian breath, 

Shall suit th' unveiling of dark records well — 

Hear me in tenderness and silent faith ! 

Thou knew'st me not in life's fresh vernal morn — 
I would thou hadst ! — for then my heart on thine 
Had poured a worthier love ; now, all o'erworn 
By its deep thirst for something too divine, 
It hath but fitful music to bestow, 
Echoes of harp-strings broken long ago. 

Yet even in youth companionless I stood, 
As a lone forest-Bird midst ocean's foam ; 
For me the silver cords of brotherhood 
Were early loosed ; the voices from my home 
Passed one by one, and melody and mirth 
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth. 

But, with the fulness of a heart that burned 
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turned 
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought 
In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught, 
In every still small voice and sound of power, 
And flute-note of the wind through cave and bower, 
A perilous delight ! — for then first woke 
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest 
Of secret knowledge ; and each tone that broke 



38 A Spirit's Return. 

From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast, 
Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre, 
But ministered to that strange inborn fire. 

Midst the bright silence of the mountain dells, 

In noontide hours or golden summer-eves, 

My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells 

Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves 

Shakes out response. O thou rich world unseen ! 

Thou curtained realm of spirits ! — thus my cry 

Hath troubled air and silence — dost thou lie 

Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen 

Shut from us ever ? The resounding woods, 

Do their depths teem with marvels? — and the floods, 

And the pure fountains, leading secret veins 

Of quenchless melody through rock and hill, 

Have they bright dwellers ? — are their lone domains 

Peopled with beauty, which may never still 

Our weary thirst of soul ? Cold, weak and cold, 

Is earth's vain language, piercing not one fold 

Of our deep being ! Oh, for gifts more high ! 

For a seer's glance to rend mortality ! 

For a charmed rod, to call from each dark shrine 

The oracles divine ! 

I woke from those high fantasies, to know 
My kindred with the earth — I woke to love. 
O gentle friend ! to love in doubt and woe, 
Shutting the heart the worshipped name above, 
Is to love deeply ; and my spirit's dower 
Was a sad gift, a melancholy power 
Of so adoring — with a buried care, 
And with th' o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer ; 
And with a deepening dream, that day by day, 



A Spirifs Return. 39 

In the still shadow of its lonely sway, 

Folded me closer, till the world held naught 

Save the one being to my centred thought. 

There was no music but his voice to hear, 

No joy but such as with his step drew near; 

Light was but where he looked — life where he moved : 

Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved. 

Oh ! but such love is fearful ! — and I knew 

Its gathering doom : the soul's prophetic sight 

Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw 

O'er all things round a full, strong, vivid light, 

Too sorrowfully clear ! — an under-tone 

Was given to nature's harp, for me alone 

Whispering of grief. Of grief? — be strong, awake! 

Hath not thy love been victory, O my soul ? 

Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake 

Death's fastnesses ? — a magic to control 

Worlds far removed? — from o'er the grave to thee 

Love hath made answer ; and thy tale should be 

Sung like a lay of triumph ! Now return 

And take thy treasure from its bosomed urn, 

And lift it once to light ! 

In fear, in pain, 
I said I loved — but yet a heavenly strain 
Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream, 
A joy flashed through the trouble of my dream ! 
I knew myself beloved ! We breathed no vow, 
No mingling visions might our fate allow, 
As unto happy hearts ; but still and deep, 
Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave, 
Like golden sand in some dark river's wave, 
So did my soul that costly knowledge keep, 
So jealously ! — a thing o'er which to shed, 



40 A Spirits Return. 

When stars alone beheld the drooping head, 
Lone tears ! yet ofttimes burdened with th' excess 
Of our strange nature's quivering happiness. 

But, oh ! sweet friend ! we dream not of love's might 
Till death has robed with soft and solemn light 
The image we enshrine ! Before that hour, 
We have but glimpses of th' o'ermastering power 
Within us laid ! — then doth the spirit-flame 
With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame ; 
The wings of that which pants to follow fast 
Shake their clay-bars, as with a prisoned blast — 
The sea is in our souls ! 

He died — he died 
On whom my lone devotedness was cast ! 
I might not keep one vigil by his side, 
7, whose wrung heart watched with him to the last ! 
I might not once his fainting head sustain, 
Nor bathe his parched lips in the hour of pain, 
Nor say to him, " Farewell !" He passed away— 
Oh ! had my love been there, its conquering sway 
Had won him back from death ! But thus removed, 
Borne o'er th' abyss no sounding-line hath proved, 
Joined with th' unknown, the viewless — he became 
Unto my thoughts another, yet the same — 
Changed — hallowed — glorified ! — and his low grave 
Seemed a bright mournful altar — mine, all mine : 
Brother and friend soon left me that sole shrine, 
The birthright of the faithful ! — their world's wave 
Soon swept them from its brink. Oh ! deem thou not 
That on the sad and consecrated spot 
My soul grew weak ! I tell thee that a power 
There kindled heart and lip — a fiery shower 



A Spirit's Return. 41 

My words were made — a might was given to prayer, 

And a strong grasp to passionate despair, 

And a dread triumph ! Know'st thou what I sought ? 

For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought ? 

— Communion with the dead ! I sent a cry 

Through the veiled empires of eternity — 

A voice to cleave them ! By the mournful truth, 

By the lost promise of my blighted youth, 

By the strong chain a mighty love can bind 

On the beloved, the spell of mind o'er mind ; 

By words, which in themselves are magic high, 

Armed, and inspired, and winged with agony ; 

By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem 

To bear the heart's blood in their passion-stream ; 

I summoned, I adjured ! — with quickened sense, 

With the keen vigil of a life intense. 

I watched, an answer from the winds to wring ; 

I listened, if perchance the stream might bring 

Token from worlds afar ; I taught one sound 

Unto a thousand echoes — one profound 

Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky — 

One prayer to night — "Awake ! appear ! reply ! " 

Hast thou been told that from the viewless bourne 

The dark way never hath allowed return ? 

That all, which tears can move, with life is fled — 

That earthly love is powerless on the dead? 

Believe it not ! — There is a large lone star 

Now burning o'er yon western hill afar, 

And under its clear light there lies a spot 

Which well might utter forth — Believe it not ! 

I sat beneath that planet. I had wept 

My woe to stillness ; every night- wind slept ; 

A hush was on the hills ; the veiy streams 



42 A Spirifs Return. 

"Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams ; 

And the dark tree o'ershadowing me that hour 

Stood motionless, even as the grey church-tower 

Whereon I gazed unconsciously. There came 

A low sound, like the tremor of a flame, 

Or like the light quick shiver of a wing, 

Flitting through twilight woods, across the air ; 

And I looked up ! Oh ! for strong words to bring 

Conviction o'er thy thought ! Before me there, 

He, the departed, stood ! Ay, face to face, 

So near, and yet how far ! His form, his mien, 

Gave to remembrance back each burning trace 

Within : — Yet something awfully serene, 

Pure, sculpture-like, on the pale brow, that wore 

Of the once beating heart no token more ; 

And stillness on the lip — and o'er the hair 

A gleam, that trembled through the breathless air ; 

And an unfathomed calm, that seemed to lie 

In the grave sweetness of th' illumined eye, 

Told of the gulfs between our being set, 

And, as that unsheathed spirit-glance I met, 

Made my soul faint : — with /ear? Oh ! not with fear ! 

With the sick feeling that in his far sphere 

My love could be as nothing ! But he spoke — 

How shall I tell thee of the startling thrill 

In that low voice, whose breezy tones could fill 

My bosom's infinite ? O friend ! I woke 

Then first to heavenly life ! Soft, solemn, clear, 

Breathed the mysterious accents on mine ear, 

Yet strangely seemed as if the while they rose 

From depths of distance, o'er the wide repose 

Of slumbering waters wafted, or the dells 

Of mountains, hollow with sweet echo-cells. 

But, as they murmured on, the mortal chill 



A Spirit's Return. 43 

Passed from me, like a mist before the morn ; 

And, to that glorious intercourse upborne 

By slow degrees, a calm, divinely still, 

Possessed my frame. I sought that lighted eye — 

From its intense and searching purity 

I drank in soul! — I questioned of the dead — 

Of the hushed, starry shores their footsteps tread, 

And I was answered. If remembrance there 

With dreamy whispers fill th' immortal air ; 

If thought, here piled from many a jewel-heap, 

Be treasure in that pensive land to keep ; 

If love, o'ers weeping change, and blight, and blast, 

Find there the music of his home at last : 

I asked, and I was answered. Full and high 

Was that communion with eternity — 

Too rich for aught so fleeting ! Like a knell 

Swept o'er my sense its closing words, "Farewell ! 

On earth we meet no more ! " And all was gone — 

The pale, bright, settled brow — the thrilling tone, 

The still and shining eye ! and never more 

May twilight gloom or midnight hush restore 

That radiant guest ! One full-fraught hour of heaven, 

To earthly passion's wild implorings given, 

W T as made my own — th' ethereal fire hath shivered 

The fragile censer in whose mould it quivered, 

Brightly, consumingly ! What now is left ? 

A faded world, of glory's hues bereft — 

A void, a chain ! I dwell midst throngs, apart, 

In the cold silence of the stranger's heart ; 

A fixed immortal shadow stands between 

My spirit and life's fast-receding scene; 

A gift hath severed me from human ties, 

A power is gone from all earth's melodies, 

Which never may return : their chords are broken, 



44 -^ Spirifs Return. 

The music of another land hath spoken — 
No after-sound is sweet ! This weary thirst ! 
And I have heard celestial fountains burst ! 
What here shall quench it ? 

Dost thou not rejoice, 
When the spring sends forth an awakening voice 
Through the young woods ? Thou dost ! And in that birth 
Of early leaves, and flowers, and songs of mirth, 
Thousands, like thee, find gladness ! Couldst thou know 
How every breeze then summons me to go ! 
How all the light of love and beauty shed 
By those rich hours, but woos me to the dead ! 
The only beautiful that change no more — 
The only loved ! — the dwellers on the shore 
Of spring fulfilled ! The dead ! whom call we so ? 
They that breathe purer air, that feel, that know 
Things wrapt from us ! Away ! within me pent, 
That which is barred from its own element 
Still droops or struggles ! But the day will come — 
Over the deep the free bird finds its home ; 
And the stream lingers midst the rocks, yet greets 
The sea at last ; and the winged flower-seed meets 
A soil to rest in : shall not 7", too, be, 
My spirit-love ! upborne to dwell with thee ? 
Yes ! by the power whose conquering anguish stirred 
The tomb, whose cry beyond the stars was heard, 
Whose agony of triumph won thee back 
Through the dim pass no mortal step may track, 
Yet shall we meet ! that glimpse of joy divine 
Proved thee for ever and for ever mine ! 



Passing Away. 45 



PASSING AWAY. 

' Passing- away ' is written on the world, and all tlie world 
contains" 

IT is written on the rose, 
In its glory's full array ; 
Read what those buds disclose — 
" Passing away." 

It is written on the skies 

Of the soft blue summer-day ; 
It is traced in sunset's dyes — 
" Passing away." 

It is written on the trees, 

As their young leaves glistening play, 
And on brighter things than these — 
" Passing away." 

It is written on the brow 

Where the spirit's ardent ray 
Lives, burns, and triumphs now — 
" Passing away." 

It is written on the heart ; 
Alas ! that there Decay 
Should claim from Love a part — 
" Passing away." 

Friends, friends ! oh ! shall we meet 

In a land of purer day, 
Where lovely things and sweet 
Pass not away ? 



46 Death and the Warrior. 

Shall we know each other's eyes, 

And the thoughts that in them lay 
When we mingled sympathies 
" Passing away." 

Oh ! if this may be so, 

Speed, speed, thou closing day ! 
How blest from earth's vain show 
To pass away ! 



DEATH AND THE WARRIOR. 

<< A Y, warrior, arm ! and wear thy plume 
l\. On a proud and fearless brow ! 

I am the lord of the lonely tomb, 
And a mightier one than thou ! 

" Bid thy soul's love farewell, young chief — 

Bid her a long farewell ! 
Like the morning's dew shall pass that grief : 

Thou comest with me to dwell ! 

" Thy bark may rush through the foaming deep, 

Thy steed o'er the breezy hill ; 
But they bear thee on to a place of sleep, 

Narrow, and cold, and chill ! " 

' ' Was the voice I heard thy voice, O Death ! 

And is thy day so near ? 
Then on the field shall my life's last breath 

Mingle with victory's cheer ! 



Death and the Warrior, 47 

" Banners shall float, with the trumpet's note, 

Above me as I die ! 
And the palm-tree wave o'er my noble grave, 

Under the Syrian sky. 

" High hearts shall burn in the royal hall, 

When the minstrel names that, spot ; 
And the eyes I love shall weep my fall. — 

Death, death, I fear thee not ! " 

" Warrior ! thou bear'st a haughty heart, 

But I can bend its pride ! 
How shouldst thou know that thy soul will part 

In the hour of victoiy's tide ? 

" It may be far from thy steel-clad bands 

That I shall make thee mine ; 
It may be lone on the desert sands, 

Where men for fountains pine ! 

' ' It may be deep amidst heavy chains, 

In some deep Paynim hold ; 
I have slow, dull steps and lingering pains 

Wherewith to tame the bold ! " 

" Death, Death ! 'I go to a doom unblest, 

If this indeed must be; 
But the Cross is bound upon my breast, 

And I may not shrink for thee ! 

" Sound, clarion ! sound ! — for my vows are given 

To the cause of the holy shrine ; 
I bow my soul to the will of Heaven, 

O Death ! — and not to thine ! " 



48 The Memory of the Dead. 



THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD. 

FORGET them not l — though now their name 
Be but a mournful sound, 
Though by the hearth its utterance claim 
A stillness round. 

Though for their sake this earth no more 

As it hath been may be, 
And shadows, never marked before, 

Brood o'er each tree ; 

And though their image dim the sky, 

Yet, yet, forget them not ! 
Nor, where their love and life went by, 

Forsake the spot ! 

They have a breathing influence there, 

A charm, not elsewhere found ; 
Sad — yet it sanctifies the air, 

The stream, the ground. 

Then, though the wind an altered tone 

Through the young foliage bear, 
Though every flower, of something gone 

A tinge may wear ; 

Oh ! fly it not ! No fruitless grief, 

Thus in their presence felt, 
A record links to every leaf 

There, where they dwelt. 



The Angel's Greetifig. 49 

Still trace the path which knew their tread, 

Still tend their garden-bower, 
Still commune with the holy dead 

In each lone hour ! 

The holy dead ! — oh ! bless' d we are, 

That we may call them so, 
And to their image look afar 

Through all our woe ! 

Bless'd, that the things they loved on earth 

As relics we may hold, 
That wake sweet thoughts of parted worth 

By springs untold ! 

Bless'd, that a deep and chastening power 

Thus o'er our souls is given, 
If but to bird, or song, or flower, 

Yet all for heaven ! 



THE ANGEL'S GREETING. 

" Hark I — they whis fieri — Angels say, 
Sister spirit ! come away. " — Pope. 

COME to the land of peace ! 
Come where the tempest hath no longer sway, 
The shadow passes from the soul away, 
The sounds of weeping cease. 

D 



The Angel's Greeting. 

Fear hath no dwelling there ! 
Come to the mingling of repose and love, 
Breathed by the silent spirit of the dove 

Through the celestial air. 

Come to the bright, and blest, 
And crowned for ever ! Midst that shining band, 
Gathered to heaven's own wreath from every land, 

Thy spirit shall find rest ! 

Thou hast been long alone : 
Come to thy mother ! On the Sabbath shore, 
The heart that rocked thy childhood, back once more 

Shall take its wearied one. 

In silence wert thou left : 
Come to thy sisters ! Joyously again 
All the home-voices, blent in one sweet strain, 

Shall greet their long bereft. 

Over thine orphan head 
The storm hath swept, as o'er a willow's bough : 
Come to thy father ! It is finished now; 

Thy tears have all been shed. 

In thy divine abode, 
Change finds no pathway, memory no dark trace, 
And, oh ! bright victory — death by love no place. 

Come, spirit ! to thy God. 



The Vigil of Arms. 51 



THE VIGIL OF ARMS. 

[The candidate for knighthood was under the necessity of keeping 
watch, the night before his inauguration, in a church, and completely 
armed. This was called "the Vigil of Arms."] 

A SOUNDING step was heard by night 
Jr\. In a church where the mighty slept, 
As a mail-clad youth, till morning's light, 

Midst the tombs his vigil kept. 
He walked in dreams of power and fame, 

He lifted a proud bright eye, 
For the hours were few that withheld his name 

From the roll of chivalry. 

Down the moonlit aisles he paced alone, 

With a free and stately tread ; 
And the floor gave back a muffled tone 

From the couches of the dead : 
The silent many that round him lay, 

The crowned and helmed that were, 
The haughty chiefs of the war array — 

Each in his sepulchre ! 

But no dim warning of time or fate 

That youth's flushed hopes could chill; 
He moved through the trophies of buried state 

With each proud pulse throbbing still. 
He heard, as the wind through the chancel sung, 

A swell of the trumpet's breath ; 
He looked to the banners on high that hung, 

And not to the dust beneath. 



52 The Vigil of Arms. 

And a royal mask of splendour seemed 

Before him to unfold; 
Through the solemn arches on it streamed, 

With many a gleam of gold : 
There were crested knight, and gorgeous dame, 

Glittering athwart the gloom ; 
And he followed, till his bold step came 

To his warrior-father's tomb. 

But there the still and shadowy might 

Of the monumental stone, 
And the holy sleep of the soft lamp's light 

That over its quiet shone, 
And the image of that sire, who died 

In his noonday of renown — ♦ 
These had a power unto which the pride 

Of fiery life bowed down. 

And a spirit from his early years 

. Came back o'er his thoughts to move, 

Till his eye was filled with memory's tears, 

And his heart with childhood's love ! 
And he looked, with a change in his softening glance, 

To the armour o'er the grave — 
For there they hung, the shield and lance, 

And the gauntlet of the brave. 

And the sword of many a field was there, 

With its cross for the hour of need, 
When the knight's bold war-cry hath sunk in prayer, 

And the spear is a broken reed ! 
— Hush ! did a breeze through the armour sigh ? 

Did the folds of the banner shake ? 
Not so ! — from the tomb's dark mystery 

There seemed a voice to break ! 






The Voice of the Waves. 5 3 

He had heard that voice bid clarions blow, 

He had caught its last blessing's breath — 
'Twas the same — but its awful sweetness- now 

Had an under-tone of death ! 
And it said — " The sword hath conquered kings, 

And the spear through realms hath passed ; 
But the cross, alone, of all these things, 

Might aid me at the last." 



THE VOICE OF THE WAVES. 

WRITTEN NEAR. THE SCENE OF A RECENT SHIPWRECK. 

" How perfect was the calm I it seemed no sleep, 
No mood which season takes away or brings ; 
I could have fancied that the mighty deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 

But welcome fortitude and patient cheer. 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne." 

— Wordsworth. 

ANSWER, ye chiming waves 
That now in sunshine sweep ! 
Speak to me from thy hidden caves, 
Voice of the solemn deep ! 

Hath man's lone spirit here 

With storms in battle striven ? 
Where all is now so calmly clear, 

Hath anguish cried to heaven ? 



54 The Voice of the Waves. 

< — Then the sea's voice arose 

Like an earthquake's under-tone : 

" Mortal! the strife of human woes 
Where hath not nature known ? 



" Here to the quivering mast 

Despair hath wildly clung ; 
The shriek upon the wind hath passed, 

The midnight sky hath rung ; 

' ' And the youthful and the brave, 
With their beauty and renown, 

To the hollow chambers of the wave 
In darkness have gone down. 

" They are vanished from their place — 
Let their homes and hearths make moan ! 

But the rolling waters keep no trace 
Of pang or conflict gone." 

— Alas ! thou haughty deep ! 

The strong, the sounding far ! 
My heart before thee dies, — I weep 

To think on what we are ! 

To think that so we pass — 

High hope, and thought, and mind — 
Even as the breath-stain from the glass, 

Leaving no sign behind ! 

Saw'st thou naught else, thou main ? 

Thou and the midnight sky ? 
Naught save the struggle, brief and vain, 

The parting agony ! 



O ye Voices. 55 

— And the sea's voice replied : 

" Here nobler things have been ! 
Power, with the valiant when they died, 

To sanctify the scene : 

" Courage, in fragile form, 

Faith, trusting to the last, 
Prayer, breathing heavenwards through the storm : 

But all alike have passed." 

Sound on, thou haughty sea ! 

These have not passed in vain ; 
My soul awakes, my hope springs free 

On victor wings again. 

Thou, from thine empire driven, 

May'st vanish with thy powers ; 
But, by the hearts that here have striven, 

A loftier doom is ours ! 



O YE VOICES. 

OYE voices round my own hearth singing, 
As the winds of May to memory sweet ! 
Might I yet return, a worn heart bringing, 
Would those vernal tones the wanderer greet, 
Once again ? 

Never, never ! Spring hath smiled and parted 
Oft since then your fond farewell was said ; 

O'er the green turf of the gentle-hearted 

Summer's hand the rose-leaves may have shed, 
Oft a^ain ! 



5 6 Marguerite of France. 

Or if still around my heart ye linger, 

Yet, sweet voices ! there must change have come : 
Years have quelled the free soul of the singer, 

Vernal tones shall greet the wanderer home 
Ne'er again ! 



MARGUERITE OF FRANCE. 

[Queen of St Louis. Whilst besieged by the Turks in Damietta, 
during the captivity of the king her husband, she there gave birth to a 
son, whom she named Tristan, in commemoration of her misfortunes. 
Information being conveyed to her that the knights intrusted with the 
defence of the city had resolved on capitulation, she had them sum- 
moned to her apartment ; and, by her heroic words, so wrought upon 
their spirits, that they vowed to defend her and the Cross to the last 
extremity.] 

' ' Thoufalcoti-hearted dove I " — Coleridge. 

THE Moslem spears were gleaming 
Round Damietta's towers, 
Though a Christian banner from her wall 

Waved free its lily-flowers. 
Ay, proudly did the banner wave, 

As queen of earth and air ; 
But faint hearts throbbed beneath its folds 
In anguish and despair. 

Deep, deep in Paynim dungeon 

Their kingly chieftain lay, 
And low on many an Eastern field 

Their knighthood's best array. 



Marguerite of France. 5 7 

'Twas mournful, when at feasts they met, 

The wine- cup round to send ; 
For each that touched it silently 

Then missed a gallant friend ! 

And mournful was their vigil 

On the beleaguered wall, 
And dark their slumber, dark with dreams 

Of slow defeat and fall. 
Yet a few hearts of chivalry 

Rose high to breast the storm, 
And one — of all the loftiest there — 

Thrilled in a woman's form. 

A woman, meekly bending 

O'er the slumber of her child, 
With her soft, sad eyes of weeping love, 

As the Virgin Mother's mild. 
Oh ! roughly cradled was thy babe, 

Midst the clash of spear and lance, 
And a strange, wild bower was thine, young queen ! 

Fair Marguerite of France ! 

A dark and vaulted chamber, 

Like a scene for wizard spell, 
Deep in the Saracenic gloom 

Of the warrior citadel ; 
And there midst arms the couch was spread, 

And with banners curtained o'er, 
For the daughter of the minstrel-land, 
The gay Provencal shore ! 

For the bright queen of St Louis, 
The star of court and hall ! 



5 8 Marg aerite of France. 

But the deep strength of the gentle heart 

Wakes to the tempest's call ! 
Her lord was in the Paynim's hold, 

His soul with grief oppressed, 
Yet calmly lay the desolate, 

With her young babe on her breast ! 

There were voices in the city, 

Voices of wrath and fear — 
* ' The walls grow weak, the strife is vain — 

We will not perish here ! 
Yield ! yield ! and let the Crescent gleam 

O'er tower and bastion high ! 
Our distant homes are beautiful — 

We stay not here to die ! " 

They bore those fearful tidings 

To the sad queen where she lay — 
They told a tale of wavering hearts, 

Of treason and dismay : 
The blood rushed through her pearly cheek, 

The sparkle to her eye — 
" Now call me hither those recreant knights 

From the bands of Italy ! " 

Then through the vaulted chambers 

Stern iron footsteps rang ; 
And heavily the sounding floor 

Gave back the sabre's clang. 
They stood around her — steel-clad men, 

Moulded for storm and fight, 
But they quailed before the loftier soul 

In that pale aspect bright. 



Marguerite of France. 5 9 

Yes ! as before the falcon shrinks 

The bird of meaner wing, 
So shrank they from th' imperial glance 

Of her — that fragile thing ! 
And her flute-like voice rose clear and high 

Through the din of arms around — 
Sweet, and yet stirring to the soul, 

As a silver clarion's sound. 

' ' The honour of the Lily 

Is in your hands to keep, 
And the banner of the Cross, for Him 

Who died on Calvary's steep ; 
And the city which for Christian prayer 

Hath heard the holy bell — 
And is it these your hearts would yield 

To the godless infidel ? 

" Then bring me here a breastplate 

And a helm, before ye fly, 
And I will gird my woman's form, 

And on the ramparts die ! 
And the boy whom I have borne for woe, 

But never for disgrace, 
Shall go within mine arms to death 

Meet for his royal race. 

" Look on him as he slumbers 

In the shadow of the lance ! 
Then go, and with the Cross forsake 

The princely babe of France ! 
But tell your homes ye left one heart 

To perish undenled ; 
A woman, and a queen, to guard 

Her honour and her child ! " 



60 The Victor. 

Before her words they thrilled, like leaves 

When winds are in the wood ; 
And a deepening murmur told of men 

Roused to a loftier mood. 
And her babe awoke to flashing swords, 

Unsheathed in many a hand, 
As they gathered round the helpless One, 

Again a noble band ! 

* ' We are thy warriors, lady ! 

True to the Cross and thee ; 
The spirit of thy kindling words 

On every sword shall be ! 
Rest, with thy fair child on thy breast ! 

Rest — we will guard thee well ! 
St Denis for the Lily-flower 

And the Christian citadel!" 



THE VICTOR. 

" De tout ce qui faimoit n'est-il plus rien qui faime ?" 

— Lamartine. 



M 1 



' IGHTY ones, Love and Death ! 

Ye are the strong in this world of ours ; 
Ye meet at the banquets, ye dwell midst the flowers, 
— Which hath the conqueror's wreath ? 



Thou art the victor, Love ! 
T/iou art the fearless, the crowned, the free, 
The strength of the battle is given to thee — 

The spirit from above ! 



The Victor. 61 

Thou hast looked on Death, and smiled ! 
Thou hast borne up the reed-like and fragile form 
Through the waves of the fight, through the rush of the storm, 

On field, and flood, and wild ! 

No ! — Thou art the victor, Death ! 
Thou comest, and where is that which spoke, 
From the depths of the eye, when the spirit woke ? 

— Gone with the fleeting breath ! 

Thou comest — and what is left 
Of all that loved us, to say if aught 
Yet loves — yet answers the burning thought 

Of the spirit lone and reft ? 

Silence is where thou art ! 
Silently there must kindred meet, 
No smile to cheer, and no voice to greet, 

No bounding of heart to heart ! 

Boast not thy victory, Death ! 
It is but as the clouds o'er the sunbeam's power, 
It is but as the winter's o'er leaf and flower, 

That slumber the snow beneath. 

It is but as a tyrant's reign 
O'er the voice and the lip which he bids be still ; 
But the fiery thought and the lofty will 

Are not for him to chain ! 

They shall soar his might above ! 
And thus with the root whence affection springs, 
Though buried, it is not of mortal things — 

Thou art the victor, Love. 



62 He never Smiled again. 



HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN. 

[It is recorded of Henry the First, that after the death of his son, 
Prince William, who perished in a shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, 
he was never seen to smile.] 

THE bark that held a prince went down, 
The sweeping waves rolled on ; 
And what was England's glorious crown 

To him that wept a son ? 
He lived — for life may long be borne 

Ere sorrow break its chain ; 
Why comes not death to those who mourn ? 
He never smiled again ! 

There stood proud forms around his throne, 

The stately and the brave; 
But which could fill the place of one, 

That one beneath the wave ? 
Before him passed the young and fair, 

In pleasure's reckless train ; 
But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair — 

He never smiled again ! 

He sat where festal bowls went round, 

He heard the minstrel sing, 
He saw the tourney's victor crowned 

Amidst the knightly ring : 
A murmur of the restless deep 

Was blent with every strain, 
A voice of winds that would not sleep — 

He never smiled again ! 



Angel Visits. 63 

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace 

Of vows once fondly poured, 
And strangers took the kinsman's place 

At many a joyous board ; 
Graves, which true love had bathed with tears, 

Were left to heaven's bright rain, 
Fresh hopes were born for other years — 

He never smiled again ! 



ANGEL VISITS. 



te No more of talk where God or angel guest 
With man, as with his friend, fa7nilicr used 
To sit indulgent, and with him partake 
Rural repast." — Milton. 



ARE ye for ever to your skies departed ? 
Oh ! will ye visit this dim world no more ? 
Ye, whose bright wings a solemn splendour darted 

Through Eden's fresh and flowering shades of yore ! 
Now are the fountains dried on that sweet spot, 
And ye — our faded earth beholds you not. 

Yet, by your shining eyes not all forsaken, 
Man wandered from his Paradise away ; 

Ye, from forgetfulness his heart to waken, 

Came down, high guests ! in many a later day, 

And with the patriarchs, under vine or oak, 

Midst noontide calm or hush of evening, spoke. 



64 Angel Visits. 

From you, the veil of midnight darkness rending, 
Came the rich mysteries to the sleeper's eye, 

That saw your hosts ascending and descending 
On those bright steps between the earth and sky : 

Trembling he woke, and bowed o'er glory's trace, 

And worshipped, awe-struck, in that fearful place. 

By Chebar's brook ye passed, such radiance wearing 

As mortal vision might but ill endure ; 
Along the stream the living chariot bearing, 

With its high crystal arch, intensely pure ; 
And the dread rushing of your wings that hour 
Was like the noise of waters in their power. 

But in the Olive Mount, by night appearing, 

Midst the dim leaves, your holiest work was done. 

Whose was the voice that came divinely cheering, 
Fraught with the breath of God to aid his Son ? 

— Haply of those that, on the moonlit plains, 

Wafted good tidings unto Syrian swains. 

Yet one more task was Yours ! your heavenly dwelling 
Ye left, and by th' unsealed sepulchral stone, 

In glorious raiment, sat ; the weepers telling, 

That He they sought had triumphed and was gone. 

Now have ye left us for the brighter shore ; 

Your presence lights the lonely groves no more. 

But may ye not, unseen, around us hover, 

With gentle promptings and sweet influence yet, 

Though the fresh glory of those days be over, 

When, midst the palm-trees, man your footsteps met ? 

Are ye not near when faith and hope rise high, 

When love, by strength, o'ermasters agony ? 






The Treasures of the Deep. 65 

Are ye not near when sorrow, unrepining, 

Yields up life's treasures unto Him who gave ? 

When martyrs, all things for His sake resigning, 
Lead on the march of death, serenely brave ? 

Dreams ! But a deeper thought our souls may fill : 

One, One is near — a spirit holier still ! 



THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. 

WHAT hidest thou in thy treasure caves and cells, 
Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main ? — 
Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow- coloured shells, 

Bright things which gleam unrecked of, and in vain. 
Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! 
We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! What wealth untold, 
Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies ! 

Thou hast the stany gems, the burning gold, 
Won from ten thousand royal argosies. — 

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! 
Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! Thy waves have rolled 

Above the cities of a world gone by ! 
Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, 

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry 7 . — 
Dash o'er them, ocean ! in thy scornful play : 
Man yields them to decay. 



66 The Ivy Song. 

Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more ! 

High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! 
They hear not now the booming water's roar, 

The battle-thunders will not break their rest. — 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
Give back the true and brave ! 

Give back the lost and lovely ! — those for whom 
The place was kept at board and hearth so long, 

The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, 
And the vain yearning woke midst festal song ! 

Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown — 
But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 
Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, 

O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown : 
Yet must thou hear a voice — Restore the dead ! 

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee !— 
Restore the dead, thou sea ! 



THE IVY SONG. 

OH ! how could fancy crown with thee, 
In ancient days, the God of Wine, 
And bid thee at the banquet be 

Companion of the Vine ? 
Ivy ! thy home is where each sound 
Of revelry hath long been o'er ; 



The Ivy Song. 67 

Where song and beaker once went round. 
But now are known no more ; 

Where long-fallen gods recline, 
There the place is thine. 

The Roman, on his battle-plains, 

Where kings before his eagles bent, 
With thee, amidst exulting strains, 

Shadowed the victor's tent. 
Though, shining there in deathless green, 

Triumphantly thy boughs might wave, 
Better thou lovest the silent scene 

Around the victor's grave — 

Urn and sculpture half divine 
Yield their place to thine. 

The cold halls of the regal dead, 

Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, 
Where hollow sounds the lightest tread — 

Ivy ! they know thee well ! 
And far above the festal vine 

Thou wavest where once proud banners hung, 
Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine — 

The Rhine, still fresh and young ! 

Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine, 
Ivy ! all are thine ! 

High from the fields of air look down 

Those eyries of a vanished race, 
Where harp, and battle, and renown, 

Have passed, and left no trace. 
But thou art there ! — serenely bright, 

Meeting the mountain-storms with bloom, 



68 A Song of the Rose. 

Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height, 
Or crown the lowliest tomb ! 
Ivy ! Ivy ! all are thine, 
Palace, hearth, and shrine. 

'Tis still the same : our pilgrim-tread 

O'er classic plains, through deserts free, 
On the mute path of ages fled, 

Still meets decay and thee. 
And still let man his fabrics rear, 

August in beauty, stern in power — 
Days pass — thou ivy never sere, 

And thou shalt have thy dower. 

All are thine, or must be thine — 
Temple, pillar, shrine! 






A SONG OF THE ROSE. 



" Cosijior diverrai che 71071 soggiace 
A 11 'acqua, al gelo, al vento ed alio schernb 
D' una stagion vohdnle efugace ; 
E a piujido Cult or posto i?i gozwrno, 
Unir potrai nella tranquilla pace, 
Ad eterna Bellezza odore eterno" — Metastasio. 



R c 



i OSE ! what dost thou here ? 
Bridal, royal rose ! 
How, midst grief and fear, 
Canst thou thus disclose 
That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf glows ? 



A Song of the Rose, 69 

Rose ! too much arrayed 

For triumphal hours, 
Look'st thou through the shade 

Of these mortal bowers, 
Not to disturb my soul, thou crowned one of all flowers ! 

As an eagle soaring 

Through a sunny sky, 
As a clarion pouring 

Notes of victory, 
So dost thou kindle thoughts, for earthly life too high. 

Thoughts of rapture, flushing 

Youthful poet's cheek ; 
Thoughts of glory, rushing 

Forth in song to break, 
But finding the spring-tide of rapid song too weak. 

Yet, O festal rose ! 

I have seen thee lying 
In thy bright repose 

Pillowed with the dying, 
Thy crimson by the lip whence life's quick blood was flying. 

Summer, hope, and love 

O'er that bed of pain, 
Met in thee, yet wove 

Too, too frail a chain 
In its embracing links the lovely to detain. 

Smilest thou, gorgeous flower ? 

Oh ! within the spells 
Of thy beauty's power, 

Something dimly dwells, 
At variance with a world of sorrows and farewells. 



70 The Faith of Love. 

All the soul forth flowing 

In that rich perfume, 
All the proud life glowing 

In that radiant bloom — 
Have they no place but here, beneath th' o'ershadowing tomb? 

Crown' st thou but the daughters 

Of our tearful race ? 
Heaven's own purest waters 

Well might wear the trace 
Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace. 

Will that clime enfold thee 

With immortal air? 
Shall we not behold thee 

Bright and deathless there ? 
In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendently more fair ! 

Yes ! my fancy sees thee 

In that light disclose, 
And its dream thus frees thee 

From the mist of woes, 
Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal royal rose ! 



THE FAITH OF LOVE. 

THOU hast watched beside the bed of death, 
O fearless human Love ! 
Thy lip received the last faint breath, 
Ere the spirit fled above. 



The Faith of Love. 7 1 

Thy prayer was heard by .the parting bier, 

In a low and farewell tone ; 
Thou hast given the grave both flower and tear — 

O Love ! thy task is done. 

Then turn thee from each pleasant spot 

Where thou wert wont to rove ; 
For there the friend of thy soul is not, 

Nor the joy of thy youth, O Love ! 

Thou wilt meet but mournful Memory there ; 

Her dreams in the groves she weaves, 
With echoes filling the summer air, 

With sighs the trembling leaves. 

Then turn thee to the world again, 

From those dim, haunted bowers, 
And shut thine ear to the wild, sweet strain 

That tells of vanished hours. 

And wear not on thine aching heart 

The image of the dead ; 
For the tie is rent that gave thee part 

In the gladness its beauty shed. 

And gaze on the pictured smile no more 

That thus can life outlast : 
All between parted souls is o'er. — 

Love ! Love ! forget the past I 

' * Voice of vain boding ! away, be still ! 

Strive not against the faith 
That yet my bosom with light can fill, 

Unquenched, and undimmed by death. 



72 The Coronation of Inez de Castro. 

u From the pictured smile I will not turn, 

Though sadly now it shine ; 
Nor quit the shades that in whispers mourn 

For the step once linked with mine ; 

' * Nor shut mine ear to the song of old, 
Though its notes the pang renew. 

Such memories deep in my heart I hold, 
To keep it pure and true. 

' ' By the holy instinct of my heart, 
By the hope that bears me on, 

I have still my own undying part 
In the deep affection gone. 

" By the presence that about me seems 
Through night and day to dwell, 

Voice of vain bodings, and fearful dreams ! 
— I have breathed no last farewell ! " 



THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. 

" Tableau, ou V Amour fait alliance avec la Tombe ; union redout- 
able de la mort et de la vie " — Madame de Stael. 

THERE was music on the midnight — 
From a royal fane it rolled ; 
And a mighty bell, each pause between, 

Sternly and slowly tolled. 
Strange was their mingling in the sky, 
It hushed the listener's breath ; 



The Coronation of Inez de Castro, 73 

For the music spoke of triumph high 
The lonely bell— of death ! 

There was hurrying through the midnight — 

A sound of many feet ; 
But they fell with a muffled fearfulness 

Along the shadowy street : 
And softer, fainter, grew their tread, 

As it neared the minster gate, 
Whence a broad and solemn light was shed 

From a scene of. royal state. 

Full glowed the strong red radiance 

In the centre of the nave, 
Where the folds of a purple canopy 

Swept down in many a wave, 
Loading the marble pavement old 

With a weight of gorgeous gloom ; 
For something lay midst their fretted gold, 

Like a shadow of the- tomb. 

And within that rich pavilion, 

High on a glittering throne, 
A woman's form sat silently, 

Midst the glare of light alone. 
Her jewelled robes fell strangely still — 

The drapery on her breast 
Seemed with no pulse beneath to thrill, 

So stonelike was its rest ! 

But a peal of lordly music 

Shook e'en the dust below, 
W T hen the burning gold of the diadem 

Was set on her pallid brow ! 



The Coro7iation of Inez de Castro. 

Then died away that haughty sound ; 

And from th' encircling band 
Stepped prince and chief, midst the hush profound, 

With homage to her hand. 

Why passed a faint, cold shuddering 

Over each martial frame, 
As one by one, to touch that hand, 

Noble and leader came ? 
Was not the settled aspect fair ? 

Did not a queenly grace, 
Under the parted ebon hair, 

Sit on the pale still face ? 

Death ! death ! canst thou be lovely 

Unto the eye of life ? 
Is not each pulse of the quick high breast 

With thy cold mien at strife ? 
— It was a strange and fearful sight, 

The crown upon that head, 
The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, 

All gathered round the Dead ! 

And beside her stood in silence 

One with a brow as pale, 
And white lips rigidly compressed, 

Lest the strong heart should fail : 
King Pedro, with a jealous eye, 

Watching the homage done 
By the land's flower and chivalry 

To her, his martyred one. 

But on the face he looked not, 
Which once his star had been ; 



The Coronation of Inez de Castro. 7 5 

To every form his glance was turned, 

Save of the breathless queen : 
Though something, won from the grave's embrace, 

Of her beauty still was there, 
Its hues were all of that shadowy place, 

It was not for him to bear. 

Alas ! the crown, the sceptre, 

The treasures of the earth, 
And the priceless love that poured those gifts, 

Alike of wasted worth ! 
The rites are closed :— bear back the dead 

Unto the chamber deep ! 
Lay down again the royal head, 

Dust with the dust to sleep ! 

There is music on the midnight — 

A requiem sad and slow, 
As the mourners through the sounding aisle 

In dark procession go ; 
And the ring of state, and the starry crown, 

And all the rich array, 
Are borne to the house of silence down, 

With her, that queen of clay ! 

And tearlessly and firmly 

King Pedro led the train ; 
But his face was wrapt in his folding robe, 

When they lowered the dust again. 
5 Tis hushed at last the tomb above — 

Hymns die, and steps depart : 
Who called thee strong as Death, O Love ? 

Mightier thou wast and art. 



76 We Return no more. 



WE RETURN NO MORE. 

" When I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
And saw arotmd me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile pro?nise ; and the Spring 

Come forth, her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds tifion the wing, 
I turned from all she brought to all she could not bring." 

— Childe Harold. 

«"\T7E return ! — we return ! — we return no more ! " 
V V So comes the song to the mountain shore, 
From those that are leaving their Highland home 
For a world far over the blue sea's foam : 
' ' We return no more ! " and through cave and dell 
Mournfully wanders that wild farewell. 

"We return ! — we return ! — we return no more ! " 
So breathe sad voices our spirits o'er; 
Murmuring up from the depths of the heart, 
Where lovely things with their light depart : 
And the inborn sound hath a prophet's tone, 
And we feel that a joy is for ever gone. 

" We return ! — we return ! — we return no more ! " 
Is it heard when the days of flowers are o'er? 
When the passionate soul of the night-bird's lay 
Hath died from the summer woods away ? 
When the glory from sunset's robe hath passed, 
Or the leaves are borne on the rushing blast ? 

No ! It is not the rose that returns no more ; — 
A breath of spring shall its bloom restore ; 



The Dial of Flow as. 7 7 

And it is not the voice that o'erflows the bowers 
With a stream of love through the starry hours ; 
Nor is it the crimson of sunset hues, 
Nor the frail flushed leaves which the wild wind strews. 

" We return ! — we return ! — we return no more !" 

Doth the bird sing thus from a brighter shore ? 

Those wings that follow the southern breeze, 

Float they not homeward o'er vernal seas ? 

Yes ! from the lands of the vine and palm 

They come, with the sunshine, when waves grow calm. 

" But we !— we return ! — we return no more !" 

The heart's young dreams, when their spring is o'er ; 

The love it hath poured so freely forth — 

The boundless trust in ideal worth ; 

The faith in affection — deep, fond, yet vain — - 

These are the lost that return not again ! 



THE DIAL OF FLOWERS. 

;r I A WAS a lovely thought to mark the hours, 
JL As they floated in light away, 
By the opening and the folding flowers, 
That laugh to the summer's day. 

Thus had each moment its own rich hue, 

And its graceful cup and bell, 
In whose coloured vase might sleep the dew, 

Like a pearl in an ocean shell. 



jS Last Rites. 

To such sweet signs might the time have flowed 

In a golden current on, 
Ere from the garden, man's first abode, 

The glorious guests were gone. 

So might the days have been brightly told — 
Those days of song and dreams — 

When shepherds gathered their flocks of old 
By the blue Arcadian streams. 

So in those isles of delight, that rest 

Far off in a breezeless main, 
Which many a bark, with a weary quest, 

Has sought, but still in vain. 

Yet is not life, in its real flight, 

Marked thus — even thus — on earth, 

By the closing of one hope's delight, 
And another's gentle birth ? 

Oh ! let us live, so that flower by flower. 

Shutting in turn, may leave 
A lingerer still for the sunset hour, 

A charm for the shaded eve. 



LAST RITES. 

BY the mighty minster's bell, 
Tolling with a sudden swell ; 
By the colours half-mast high, 
O'er the sea hung mournfully ; • 
Know, a prince hath died ! 



Last Rites. 79 

By the drum's dull muffled sound, 
By the arms that sweep the ground, 
By the volleying muskets' tone, 
Speak ye of a soldier gone 

In his manhood's pride. 

By the chanted psalm that fills 
Reverently the ancient hills, 
Learn, that from his harvests done, 
Peasants bear a brother on 
To his last repose. 

By the pall of snowy white 
Through the yew-trees gleaming bright ; 
By the garland on the bier, 
Weep ! a maiden claims thy tear — 
Broken is the rose ! 

Which is the tenderest rite of all ? — 
Buried virgin's coronal, 
Requiem o'er the monarch's head, 
Farewell gun for warrior dead, 

Herdsman's funeral hymn ? 

Tells not each of human woe ? 
Each of hope and strength brought low ? 
Number each with holy things, 
If one chastening thought it brings 
Ere life's day grow dim ! 



8o The Wreck 



THE WRECK. 

ALL night the booming minute-gun 
Had pealed along the deep, 
And mournfully the rising sun 

Looked o'er the tide-worn steep. 
A bark from India's coral strand, 

Before the raging blast, 
Had vailed her topsails to the sand, 
And bowed her noble mast. 

The queenly ship ! — brave hearts had striven, 

And true ones died with her ! 
We saw her mighty cable riven, 

Like floating gossamer. 
We saw her proud flag struck that morn — 

A star once o'er the seas, — 
Pier anchor gone, her deck uptorn, 

And sadder things than these ! 

We saw her treasures cast away, 

The rocks with pearls were sown ; 
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray 

Flashed out o'er fretted stone. 
And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er, 

Like ashes by a breeze ; 
And gorgeous robes — but oh ! that shore 

Had sadder things than these ! 

We saw the strong man still and low, 

A crushed reed thrown aside ; 
Yet, by that rigid lip and brow, 

Not without strife he died. 



The Wreck. 

And near him on the sea-weed lay — 

Till then we had not wept — 
But well our gushing hearts might say, 

That there a mother slept ! 

For her pale arms a babe had pressed 

With such a wreathing grasp, 
Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast, 

Yet not undone the clasp. 
Her very tresses had been flung 

To wrap the fair child's form, 
Where still their wet long streamers hung 

All tangled by the storm. 

And beautiful, midst that wild scene, 

Gleamed up the boy's dead face, 
Like slumber's, trustingly serene, 

In melancholy grace. 
Deep in her bosom lay his head, 

With half-shut violet-eye — 
He had -known little of her dread, 

Naught of her agony ! 

O human love ! whose yearning heart, 

Through all things vainly true, 
So stamps upon thy mortal part 

Its passionate adieu — 
Surely thou hast another lot : 

There is some home for thee, 
Where thou shalt rest, remembering not 

The moaning of the sea ! 



82 The Trumpet. 



THE TRUMPET. 

THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land- 
Light up the beacon pyre ! 
A hundred hills have seen the brand, 

And waved the sign of fire. 
A hundred banners to the breeze 

Their gorgeous folds have cast — 
And, hark ! was that the sound of seas ? 
A king to war went past. 

The chief is arming in his hall, 

The peasant by his hearth ; 
The mourner hears the thrilling call, 

And rises from the earth. 
The mother on her first-born son 

Looks with a boding eye — 
They come not back, though all be won, 

Whose young hearts leap so high. 

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound 

The falchion to his side ; 
E'en, for the marriage altar crowned, 

The lover quits his bride. 
And all this haste, and change, and fear, 

By earthly clarion spread ! — 
How will it be when kingdoms hear 

The blast that wakes the dead ? 



Gertrude; or, Fidelity till Death. 83 



GERTRUDE; OR, FIDELITY TILL DEATH. 

[The Baron Von der Wart, accused — though it is believed unjustly — 
as an accomplice in the assassination of the Emperor Albert, was bound 
alive on the wheel, and attended by his wife Gertrude, throughout his 
last agonising hours, with the most heroic devotedness.] 

" Dark lowers our fate, 
And terrible the storm that gathers der us ; 
But nothing, till that latest agony 
Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose 
This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prison-house, 
hi the terrific face of armed law, 
Yea, on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 
I never will forsake thee" — Joanna Baillie. 

HER hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised, 
The breeze threw back her hair ; 
Up to the fearful wheel she gazed — 

All that she loved was there. 
The night was round her clear and cold, 

The holy heaven above, 
Its pale stars watching to behold 
The might of earthly love. 

" And bid me not depart," she cried ; 

"My Rudolph, say not so ! 
This is no time to quit thy side — 

Peace ! peace ! I cannot go. 
Hath the world aught for me to fear, 

When death is on thy brow ? 
The world ! what means it ? Mine is here — 

I will not leave thee now. 



84 Gertrude; or, Fidelity till Death. 

' * I have been with thee in thine hour 

Of glory and of bliss ; 
Doubt not its memory's living power 

To strengthen me through this I 
And thou, mine honoured love and true, 

Bear on, bear nobly on ! 
We have the blessed heaven in view, 

Whose rest shall soon be won." 



And were not these high words to flow 

From woman's breaking heart ? 
Through all that night of bitterest woe 

She bore her lofty part ; 
But oh ! with such a glazing eye, 

With such a curdling cheek — 
Love, love ! of mortal agony 

Thou, only thou, shouldst speak ! 

The wind rose high — but with it rose 

Her voice, that he might hear : — 
Perchance that dark hour brought repose 

To happy bosoms near ; 
While she sat striving with despair 

Beside his tortured form, 
And pouring her deep soul in prayer 

Forth on the rushing storm. 

She wiped the death-damps from his brow 
With her pale hands and soft, 

Whose touch upon the lute-chords low 
Had stilled his heart so oft. 

She spread her mantle o'er his breast, 
She bathed his lips with dew, 



The Invocation. 85 

And on his cheek such kisses pressed 
As hope and joy ne'er knew. 

Oh ! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, 

Enduring to the last ! 
She had her meed — one smile in death — 

And his worn spirit passed ! 
While even as o'er a martyr's grave 

She knelt on that sad spot, 
And, weeping, bless' d the God who gave 

Strength to forsake it not. 



THE INVOCATION. 

OH ! art thou still on earth, my love ? 
-.■ My only love ! 
Or smiling in a brighter home, 
Far, far above ? 

Oh ! is thy sweet voice fled, my love ? 

Thy light step gone ? 
And art thou not, in earth or heaven, 

Still, still my own? 

I see thee with thy gleaming hair, 
In midnight dreams ! 

But cold, and clear, and spirit-like, 
Thy soft eye seems- 



86 The last Song of Sappho. 

Peace in thy saddest hour, my love ! 

Dwelt on thy brow ; 
But something mournfully divine 

There shineth now ! 

And silent ever is thy lip, 

And pale thy cheek ; — 

Oh ! art thou earth's, or art thou heaven's ? 
Speak to me, speak ! 



THE LAST SONG OF SAPPHO. 

SOUND on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 
My dirge is in thy moan ; 
My spirit finds response in thee 
To its own ceaseless cry — " Alone, alone ! " 

Yet send me back one other word, 

Ye tones that never cease ! 
Oh ! let your secret caves be stirred, 
And say, dark waters ! will ye give me peace ? 

Away ! my weary soul hath sought 

In vain one echoing sigh, 
One answer to consuming thought 
In human hearts — and will the wave reply ? 

Sound on, thou dark unslumbering sea ! 

Sound in thy scorn and pride ! 
I ask not, alien world ! from thee 
What my own kindred earth hath still denied. 



The last Song of Sappho. 87 

aid yet I loved that earth so well, 

With all its lovely things ! 
>Vas it for this the death -wind fell 
my rich lyre, and quenched its living strings ? 

Let them lie silent at my feet ! 
Since, broken even as they, 
The heart whose music made them sweet 
Hath poured on desert sands its wealth away. 

Yet glory's light hath touched my name, 

The laurel-wreath is mine — 
With a lone heart, a weary frame— 
O restless deep ! I come to make them thine ! 

Give to that crown, that burning crown, 

Place in thy darkest hold ! 
Bury my anguish, my renown, 
With hidden wrecks, lost gems, and wasted gold. 

Thou sea-bird on the billow's crest ! 

Thou hast thy love, thy home ; 
They wait thee in the quiet nest, 
And I, th' unsought, unwatched-for — I too come ! 

I, with this winged nature fraught, 

These visions wildly free, 
This boundless love, this fiery thought — 
Alone I come — oh ! give me peace, dark sea ! 



88 Genius Singing to Love. 



GENIUS SINGING TO LOVE. 

" That voice re-measures 
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 
The things ofnattire utter; birds or trees, 
Or where the tall grass mid tJie heath-pla?it waves, 
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze." — Coleridge. 

I HEARD a song upon the wandering wind, 
A song of many tones — though one full soul 
Breathed through them all imploringly ; and made 
All nature as they passed, all quivering leaves 
And low responsive reeds and waters, thrill 
As with the consciousness of human prayer. 
At times the passion-kindled melody 
Might seem to gush from Sappho's fervent heart, 
Over the wild sea- wave ; — at times the strain 
Flowed with more plaintive sweetness, as if born 
Of Petrarch's voice, beside the lone Vaucluse ; 
And sometimes, with its melancholy swell, 
A graver sound was mingled, a deep note 
Of Tasso's holy lyre. Yet still the tones 
Were of a suppliant — " Leave me not! " was still 
The burden of their music ; and I knew 
The lay which Genius, in its loneliness, 
Its own still world, amidst th' o'erpeopled world, 
Hath ever breathed to Love. 

" They crown me with the glistening crown, 
Borne from a deathless tree ; 
I hear the pealing music of renown — 
O Love ! forsake me not ! 
Mine were a lone, dark lot, 
Bereft of thee ! 



Genius Singing to Love. 89 

They tell me that my soul can throw 
A glory o'er the earth ; 
From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow ! 
Shed by thy gentle eyes, 
It gives to flower and skies 
A bright, new birth ! 

" Thence gleams the path of morning 

Over the kindling hills, a sunny zone ! 
Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burning 
With lustre not its own ! 
Thence every wood-recess 
Is filled with loveliness, 
Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known. 

" I see all beauty by the ray 

That streameth from thy smile ; 
Oh ! bear it, bear it not away ! 
Can that sweet light beguile ? 

Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems, 
To linger long by earthly streams ; 
I clasp it with th' alloy 
Of fear midst quivering joy. 
Yet must I perish if the gift depart — 
Leave me not, Love ! to mine own beating heart ! 

" The music from my lyre 
With thy swift step would flee ; 
The world's cold breath would quench the starry fire 
In my deep soul — a temple filled with thee ! 
Sealed would the fountains lie, 
The waves of harmony, 
Which thou alone canst free ! 



90 Far Away. 

' ' Like a shrine midst rocks forsaken, 
Whence the oracle hath fled ; 
Like a harp which none might waken 

But a mighty master dead ; 
Like the vase of a perfume scattered, 

Such would my spirit be — 
So mute, so void, so shattered, 
Bereft of thee ! 



" Leave me not, Love ! or if this earth 
Yield not for thee a home, 
If the bright summer-land of thy pure birth 

Send thee a silvery voice that whispers ' ComeP 
Then, with the glory from the rose, 
With the sparkle from the stream, 
With the light thy rainbow-presence throws 
Over the poet's dream ; 
With all th' Elysian hues 
Thy pathway that suffuse, 
With joy, with music, from the fading grove, 
Take me y too, heavenward on thy wing, sweet Love ! " 



FAR AWAY. 

FAR away ! — my home is far away, 
Where the blue sea laves a mountain -shore ; 
In the woods I hear my brothers play, 

Midst the flowers my sister sings once more, 
Far away ! 



Invocation. 9 1 

Far away ! — my dreams are far away, 

When at midnight stars and shadows reign : 

" Gentle child !" my mother seems to say, 
" Follow me where home shall smile again, 
Far away ! " 

Far away ! — my hope is far away, 

Where love's voice young gladness may restore. 
— O thou dove ! now soaring through the day, 

Lend me wings to reach that better shore, 
Far away ! 



INVOCATION. 

i I called on drea?ns and visions to disclose 
That which is veiled from waking thought ; conjured 
Eternity, as men constrain a ghost 
To appear and answer." — Wordsworth. 

ANSWER me, burning stars of night ! 
Where is the spirit gone, 
That past the reach of human sight 

As a swift breeze hath flown ? 
And the stars answered me — " We roll 

In light and power on high ; 
But, of the never-dying soul, 
Ask that which cannot die. 

O many-toned and chainless wind ! 

Thou art a wanderer free ; 
Tell me if thou its place canst find, 

Far over mount and sea ? 



92 Brightly hast thou Fled, 

And the wind murmured in reply — 
' ' The blue deep I have crossed, 

And met its barks and billows high, 
But not what thou hast lost." 

Ye clouds that gorgeously repose 

Around the setting sun, 
Answer, have ye a home for those 

Whose earthly race is run ? 
The bright clouds answered — " We depart, 

We vanish from the sky ; 
Ask what is deathless in thy heart, 

For that which cannot die." 

Speak then, thou voice of God within, 

Thou of the deep low tone ! 
Answer me, through life's restless din — 

Where is the spirit flown ? 
And the voice answered — " Be thou still ! 

Enough to know is given : 
Clouds, winds, and stars their part fulfil — 

Thine is, to trust in Heaven." 



BRIGHTLY HAST THOU FLED! 

BRIGHTLY, brightly hast thou fled ! 
Ere one grief had bowed thy head ! 
Brightly didst thou part ! 
With thy young thoughts pure from spot, 
With thy fond love wasted not, 
With thy bounding heart. 






The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. 93 

Ne'er by sorrow to be wet, 
Calmly smiles thy pale cheek yet, 

Ere with dust o'erspread : 
Lilies ne'er by tempest blown, 
White rose which no stain hath known, 

Be about thee shed ! 

So we give thee to the earth, 
And the primrose shall have birth 

O'er thy gentle head ; 
Thou that, like a dewdrop borne 
On a sudden breeze of morn, 

Brightly thus hast fled ! 



THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS 
IN NEW ENGLAND. 

" Look now abroad! Another race has filled 

Those populous borders — wide the wood recedes, 
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled; 

The la?id isfidl of harvests and gree7i meads." — Bryant. 

THE breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed; 

And the heavy night hung dark 

The hills and waters o'er ; 
When a band of exiles moored their bark 

On the wild New England shore. 



94 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came ; 
Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 

And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear ; — 
They shook the depths of the desert gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea ; 

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
To the anthem of the free ! 

The ocean eagle soared 

From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 
And the rocking pines of the forest roared — 

This was their welcome home ! 

There were men with hoary hair 

Amidst that pilgrim band ; — 
Why had they come to wither there, 

Away from their childhood's land ? 

There was woman's fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
There was manhood's brow serenely high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? — 

Bright jewels of the mine ? 
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 

They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 



The Pah?i-Tree. 95 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trode ; 
They have left unstained what there they found — 

Freedom to worship God. 



THE PALM-TREE. 

IT waved not through an Eastern sky, 
Beside a fount of Araby ; 
It was not fanned by southern breeze 
In some green isle of Indian seas ; 
Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 
O'er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 

But fair the exiled palm-tree grew 
Midst foliage of no kindred hue ; 
Through the laburnum's dropping gold 
Rose the light shaft of Orient mould, 
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet, 
Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. 

Strange looked it there ! The willow streamed 

Where silvery waters near it gleamed ; 

The lime-bough lured the honey-bee 

To murmur by the desert's tree, 

And showers of snowy roses made 

A lustre in its fan-like shade. 

There came an eve of festal hours — 
Rich music filled that garden's bowers ; 



g6 The Palm- Tree, 

Lamps, that from flowering branches hung, 
On sparks of dew soft colour flung; 
And bright forms glanced — a fairy show — 
Under the blossoms to and fro. 



But one, a lone one, midst the throng, 
Seemed reckless all of dance or song : 
He was a youth of dusky mien, 
Whereon the Indian sun had been, 
Of crested brow and long black hair — 
A stranger, like the palm-tree, there. 

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, 
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms. 
He passed the pale-green olives by, 
Nor won the chestnut flowers his eye ; 
But when to that sole palm he came, 
Then shot a rapture through his frame ! 

To him, to him its rustling spoke — 

The silence of his soul it broke ! 

It whispered of his own bright isle, 

That lit the ocean with a smile ; 

Ay, to his ear that native tone 

Had something of the sea-wave's moan ! 

His mother's cabin-home, that lay 
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay ; 
The dashing of his brethren's oar — 
The conch-note heard along the shore ; 
All through his wakening bosom swept — 
He clasped his country's tree, and wept ! 



Bernardo del Carpio. 97 

Oh ! scorn him not ! The strength whereby 

The patriot girds himself to die, 

Th' unconquerable power which fills 

The freeman battling on his hills, 

These have one fountain deep and clear — 

The same whence gushed that childlike tear ! 



BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 

THE warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his 
heart of fire, 
And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire : 
u I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive 

train, 
I pledge thee faith, my liege, my, lord !— oh, break my 
father's chain ! " 

* ' Rise, rise ! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man 

this day : 
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on 

his way." 
Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, 
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy 

speed. 

And lo ! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glitter- 
ing band, 

With one that midst them stately rode, as a leader in the 
land; 

G 



98 Bernardo del Carpio. 

" Now haste, Bernardo, haste ! for there, in very truth, is he, 
The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to 
see." 

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's 
blood came and went ; 

He reached that grey-haired chieftain's side, and there, dis- 
mounting, bent; 

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took, — 

What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook ? 

That hand was cold — a frozen thing — it dropped from his 

like lead : 
He looked up to the face above — the face was of the dead ! 
A plume waved o'er the noble brow — the brow was fixed 

and white ; 
He met at last his father's eyes — but in them was no sight ! 

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed, but who could 

paint that gaze ? 
They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze ; 
They might have chained him, as before that stony form he 

stood, 
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip 

the blood. 

" Father ! " at length he murmured low, and wept like 

childhood then — 
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike 

men ! — 
lie thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young 

renown, — 
He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat 

down. 






Bernardo del Carpio. 99 

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mourn- 
ful brow, 

11 No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword 
for now. — 

My king is false, my hope betrayed, my father — oh ! the 
worth, 

The glory and the loveliness, are passed away from earth ! 

" I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire ! beside 

thee yet — 
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil 

had met ! 
Thou wouldst have known my spirit then — for thee my 

fields were won, — 
And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst 

no son ! " 

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the 
monarch's rein, 

Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train; 

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war- 
horse led, 

And sternly set them face to face — the king before the 
dead ! — 

1 ' Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to 

kiss ? — 
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king ! and tell me what is 

this ! 
The voice, the glance, the heart I sought — give answer, 

where are they ? 
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through 

this cold clay ! 



ioo The Fountain of Oblivion. 

" Into these glassy eyes put light Be still ! keep down 

thine ire, — 
Bid these white lips a blessing speak — this earth is not my 

sire ! 
Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood 

was shed, — 
Thou canst not — and a king ! His dust be mountains on 

thy head ! " 

He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell — upon the silent 

face 
He cast one long, deep, troubled look — then turned from 

that sad place : 
His hope was crushed, his after -fate untold in martial 

strain, — 
His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. 



THE FOUNTAIN OF OBLIVION. 

' ' Implora pace I " 

ONE draught, kind fairy ! from that fountain deep, 
To lay the phantoms of a haunted breast ; 
And lone affections, which are griefs, to steep 
In the cool honey-dews of dreamless rest ; 
And from the soul the lightning-marks to lave — 
One draught of that sweet wave ! 

Yet, mortal ! pause ! Within thy mind is laid 
Wealth, gathered long and slowly ; thoughts divine 



The Fountain of Oblivion. i o 1 

Heap that full treasure-house ; and thou hast made 
The gems of many a spirit's ocean thine ; — 
Shall the dark waters to oblivion bear 
A pyramid so fair ? 



Pour from the fount ! and let the draught efface 
All the vain lore by memory's pride amassed, 
So it but sweep along the torrent's trace, 
And fill the hollow channels of the past ; 
And from the bosom's inmost folded leaf, 
Raze the one master-grief ! 

Yet pause once more ! All, all thy soul hath known, 
Loved, felt, rejoiced in, from its grasp must fade ! 
Is there no voice whose kind, awakening tone 
A sense of spring-time in thy heart hath made ? 
No eye whose glance thy day-dreams would recall ? 
— Think — wouldst thou part with all ? 

Fill with forgetfulness ! There are, there are 
Voices whose music I have loved too well — 
Eyes of deep gentleness ; but they are far — 
Never ! oh, never, in my home to dwell ! 
Take their soft looks from off my yearning soul — 
Fill high th' oblivious bowl ! 

Yet pause again ! With memory wilt thou cast 
Th' undying hope away, of memory born ? 
Hope of reunion, heart to heart at last, 
No restless doubt between, no rankling thorn ? 
Wouldst thou erase all records of delight 
That make such visions bright ? 



.102 The Sunbeam. 

Fill with forgetfulness, fill high ! Yet stay — 

'Tis from the past we shadow forth the land 
Where smiles, long lost, again shall light our way, 
And the soul's friends be wreathed in one bright band. 
Pour the sweet waters back on their own rill — 
I must remember still. 

For their sake, for the dead — whose image naught 
May dim within the temple of my breast — 
For their love's sake, which now no earthly thought 
May shake or trouble with its own unrest^ 
Though the past haunt me as a spirit — yet 
I ask not to forget. 



THE SUNBEAM. 

THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall — 
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all ! 
A bearer of hope unto land and sea — 
Sunbeam ! what gift hath the world like thee ? 

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles ; 
Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles ; 
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam, 
And gladdened the sailor like words from home. 

To the solemn depths of the forest-shades, 
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades ; 
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow 
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. 



The Sunbeam. 103 

I looked on the mountains — a vapour lay, 
Folding their heights in its dark array : 
Thou brakest forth, and the mist became 
A crown and a mantle of living flame. 

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot — 
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot ; 
But a gleam of thee on its lattice fell, 
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell. 

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, 
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart ; 
And thou scornest not from thy pomp to shed 
A tender smile on the ruin's head. 

Thou tak'st through the dim church-aisle thy way. 
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, 
And its high, pale tombs, with their trophies old, 
Are bathed in a flood as of molten gold. 

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, 
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave ; 
Thou scatter'st its gloom like the dreams of rest, 
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. 

Sunbeam of summer ! oh, what is like thee ? 

Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea ! — 

One thing is like thee to mortals given, 

The faith touching all things with hues of heaven ! 



104 The Diver. 

THE DIVER. 

" They leant in suffering what they teach in song." — Shelley. 

THOU hast been where the rocks of coral grow, 
Thou hast fought with eddying waves ; — 
Thy cheek is pale, and thy heart beats low, 
Thou searcher of ocean's caves ! 

Thou hast looked on the gleaming wealth of old, 
And wrecks where the brave have striven : 

The deep is a strong and a fearful hold, 
But thou its bar hast riven ! 

A wild and weary life is thine — 

A wasting task and lone, 
Though treasure-grots for thee may shine, 

To all besides unknown ! 

A weary life ! but a swift decay 

Soon, soon shall set thee free; 
Thou'rt passing fast from thy toils away, 

Thou wrestler with the sea ! 

In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek, 

Well are the death- signs read — , 
Go ! for the pearl in its cavern seek, 

Ere hope and power be fled ! 

And bright in beauty's coronal 

That glistening gem shall be ; 
A star to all in the festive hall — 

But who will think on thee ? 



The Diver. 105 

None ! — as it gleams from the queen-like head, 

Not one midst throngs will say, 
" A life hath been, like a raindrop, shed 

For that pale, quivering ray !" 

Woe for the wealth thus dearly bought ! 

— And are not those like thee, 
Who win for earth the gems of thought ? 

O wrestler with the sea ! 

Down to the gulfs of the soul they go, 

Where the passion-fountains burn, 
Gathering the jewels far below 

From many a buried urn : 

Wringing from lava-veins the fire, 

That o'er bright words is poured ; 
Learning deep sounds, to make the lyre 

A spirit in each chord. 

But, oh ! the price of bitter tears 

Paid for the lonely power 
That throws at last, o'er desert years, 

A darkly glorious dower ! 

Like flower-seeds, by the wild wind spread, 

So radiant thoughts are strewed ; 
— The soul whence those high gifts are shed 

May faint in solitude ! 

And who will think, when the strain is sung 

Till a thousand hearts are stirred, 
What life-drops, from the minstrel wrung, 

Have gushed with every word ? 



106 i The Better Land. 

None, none ! — his treasures live like thine, 

He strives and dies like thee ; 
— Thou that hast been to the pearl's dark shrine, 

O wrestler with the sea ! 



THE BETTER LAND. 

•« T HEAR thee speak of the better land, 
X Thou call' st its children a happy band : 
Mother ! oh, where is that radiant shore ? 
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more ? 
Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
And the fireflies glance through the myrtle-boughs?" 
— " Not there, not there, my child !" 

11 Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, 
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? 
Or midst the green islands of glittering seas, 
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, 
And strange, bright birds on their starry wings 
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?" 
— " Not there, not there, my child!" 

4 * Is it far away, in some region old, 
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ? — 
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand? — 
Is it there, sweet mother! that better land?" 
— " Not there, not there, my child ! 



To a Departed Spirit. 107 

' ' Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; 
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair — 
Sorrow and death may not enter there : 
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, 
For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, 
It is there, it is there, my child ! " 



TO A DEPARTED SPIRIT. 

FROM the bright stars, or from the viewless air, 
Or from some world unreached by human thought, 
Spirit, sweet spirit ! if thy home be there, 
And if thy visions with the past be fraught, 
Answer me, answer me ! 

Have we not communed here of life and death ? 
Have we not said that love, such love as ours, 
Was not to perish as a rose's breath, 
To melt away, like song from festal bowers ? 
Answer, oh ! answer me ! 

Thine eye's last light was mine — the soul that shone 
Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze- 
Didst thou bear with thee to the shore unknown, 
Naught of what lived in that long, earnest gaze ? 
Hear, hear and answer me ! 

Thy voice — its low, soft, fervent, farewell tone 
Thrilled through the tempest of the parting strife, 



108 The Heart of Bruce i?i Melrose Abbey. 

Like a faint breeze : oh ! from that music flown, 
Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life ! 
But once, oh ! answer me ! 

In the still noontide, in the sunset's hush, 
In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep, 
When the heart's phantoms from the darkness rush, 
Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep — 
Spirit ! then answer me ! 

By the remembrance of our blended prayer ; 
By all our tears, whose mingling made them sweet ; 
By our last hope, the victor o'er despair ; 
Speak ! if our souls in deathless yearnings meet ; 
Answer me, answer me ! 

The grave is silent : and the far-off sky, 
And the deep midnight — silent all, and lone : 
Oh ! if thy buried love make no reply, 
What voice has earth ? Hear, pity, speak, mine own ! 
Answer me, answer me ! 



THE HEART OF BRUCE IN MELROSE 
ABBEY. 

HEART ! that didst press forward still, 
Where the trumpet's note rang shrill, 
Where the knightly swords were crossing, 
And the plumes like sea-foam tossing, 
Leader of the charging spear, 
Fieiy heart ! — and liest thou here ? 



The Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey. 109 

May this narrow spot inurn 
Aught that so could beat and burn ? 
Heart ! that lovedst the clarion's blast, 
Silent is thy place at last ; 
Silent — save when early bird 
Sings where once the mass was heard ; 
Silent — save when breeze's moan 
Comes through flowers or fretted stone ; 
And the wild-rose waves around thee, 
And the long dark grass hath bound thee, 
— Sleep' st thou, as the swain might sleep, 
In his nameless valley deep ? 

No ! brave heart ! though cold and lone, 
Kingly power is yet thine own ! 
Feel I not thy spirit brood 
O'er the whispering solitude ? 
Lo ! at one high thought of thee, 
Fast they rise, the bold, the free, 
Sweeping past thy lowly bed, 
With a mute, yet stately tread. 
Shedding their pale armour's light 
Forth upon the breathless night, 
Bending every warlike plume 
In the prayer o'er saintly tomb. 

Is the noble Douglas nigh, 
Armed to follow thee, or die ? 
Now, true heart ! as thou wert wont 
Pass thou to the peril's front ! 
"Where the banner-spear is gleaming, 
And the battle's red wine streaming, 
Till the Paynim quail before thee, 
Till the cross wave proudly o'er thee, 



no Tassds Coronation. 

— Dreams ! the falling of a leaf 
Wins me from their splendours brief; 
Dreams, yet bright ones ! scorn them not, 
Thou that seek'st the holy spot ; 
Nor, amidst its lone domain, 
Call the faith in relics vain ! 



TASSO'S CORONATION. 

[Tasso died at Rome on the day before that appointed for his corona- 
tion in the Capitol.] 

A crown of victory I a triumphal song I 
Oh I call some friend, upon whose pitying heart 
The weary one may calmly sink to rest ; 
Let some kind voice, beside his lowly couch, 
Pour the last prayer for mortal agony ! 

A TRUMPET'S note is in the sky, in the glorious 
JTjl Roman sky, 
Whose dome hath rung, so many an age, to the voice of 

victoiy; 
There is crowding to the Capitol, the imperial streets along, 
For again a conqueror must be crowned — a kingly child of 

song: 

Yet his chariot lingers, 
Yet around his home 
Broods a shadow silently, 
Midst the joy of Rome. 



Tasso's Coronation. in 

A thousand thousand laurel-boughs are waving wide and 

far, 
To shed out their triumphal gleams around his rolling car ; 
A thousand haunts of olden gods have given their wealth of 

flowers, 
To scatter o'er his path of fame bright hues in gem-like 

showers. 

Peace ! Within his chamber 

Low the mighty lies — 

With a cloud of dreams on his noble brow, 

And a wandering in his eyes. 

Sing, sing for him, the lord of song — for him, whose rush- 
ing strain 

In mastery o'er the spirit sweeps, like a strong wind o'er the 
main! 

Whose voice lives deep in burning hearts, for ever there to 
dwell, 

As full-toned oracles are shrined in a temple's holiest cell. 

Yes ! for him, the victor, 
Sing — but low, sing low ! 
A soft, sad miserere chant 
For a soul about to go ! 

The sun, the sun of Italy is pouring o'er his way, 

Where the old three hundred triumphs moved, a flood of 

golden day ; 
Streaming through every haughty arch of the Caesar's past 

renown — 
Bring forth, in that exulting light, the conqueror for his 

crown ! 



ii2 To an Orphan. 

Shut the proud, bright sunshine 
From the fading sight ! 
There needs no ray by the bed of death, 
Save the holy taper's light. 



The wreath is twined — the way is strewn — the lordly train 

are met — 
The streets are hung with coronals — why stays the minstrel 

yet? 
Shout ! as an army shouts in joy around a royal chief — 
Bring forth the bard of chivalry, the bard of love and grief! 

Silence ! forth we bring him, 

In his last array ; 

From love and grief the freed, the flown — 

Way for the bier ! — make way ! 



TO AN ORPHAN. 

THOU hast been reared too tenderly, 
Beloved too well and long, 
Watched by too many a gentle eye : 
Now look on life — be strong ! 

Too quiet seemed thy joys for change, 

Too holy and too deep ; 
Bright clouds, through summer skies that range, 

Seem ofttimes thus to sleep, — 



To an Orphan. 113 

To sleep in silvery stillness bound, 

As things that ne'er may melt ; 
Yet gaze again — no trace is found 

To show thee where they dwelt. 

This world hath no more love to give 

Like that which thou hast known ; 
Yet the heart breaks not — we survive 

Our treasures — and bear on. 

But oh ! too beautiful and blest 

Thy home of youth hath been ! 
Where shall thy wing, poor bird ! find rest, 

Shut out from that sweet scene ? 

Kind voices from departed years 

Must haunt thee many a day ; 
Looks that will smite the source of tears 

Across thy soul must play. 

Friends — now the altered or the dead, 

And music that is gone, 
A gladness o'er thy dreams will shed, 

And thou shalt wake — alone. 

Alone ! it is in that deep word 

That all thy sorrow lies ; 
How is the heart to courage stirred 

By smiles from kindred eyes ! 

And are these lost ? — and have I said 

To aught like thee — be strong ? 
— So bid the. willow lift its head, 

And brave the tempest's wrong ! 
H 



1 1 4 Sadness and Mirth. 

Thou reed ! o'er which the storm hath passed- 

Thou shaken with the wind ! 
On one, one friend thy weakness cast — 

There is but One to bind ! 



SADNESS AND MIRTH. 

" Nay, these wild Jits of uncurbed laughter 
A thwart the gloomy te?ior ofyozir mind, 
As it has lowered of late, so keenly cast, 
Unsuited seem, and strange. 

Oh, nothing strange ! 
Didst thou ne'er see the swallow's veering breast, 
Winging the air beneath some murky cloud, 
In the sunned gli?npses of a troubled day, 
Shiver in silvery brightness ? 
Or boatman 's oar, as vivid lightning, flash 
In the faint gleam, that, like a spirit's path, 
Tracks the still waters of some sullen lake ? 

O gentle friend ! 
Chide not her mirth, who yesterday was sad, 
And may be so to-morrow !" — Joanna Baillie. 

YE met at the stately feasts of old, 
Where the bright wine foamed over sculptured gold ; 
Sadness and Mirth ! ye were mingled there 
With the sound of the lyre in the scented air ; 
As the cloud and the lightning are blent on high, 
Ye mixed in the gorgeous revelry. 

For there hung o'er those banquets of yore a gloom, 
A thought and a shadow of the tomb ; 
It gave to the flute-notes an under-tone, 
To the rose a colouring not its own, 



Sadness and Mirth, 115 

To the breath of the myrtle a mournful power — 
Sadness and Mirth ! ye had each your dower ! 

Ye met when the triumph swept proudly by, 
With the Roman eagles through the sky ! 
I know that even then, in his hour of pride, 
The soul of the mighty within him died ; 
That a void in his bosom lay darkly still, 
Which the music of victory might never fill ! 

Thou wert there, O Mirth ! swelling on the shout, 
Till the temples, like echo-caves, rang out ; 
Thine were the garlands, the songs, the wine — 
All the rich voices in air were thine, 
The incense, the sunshine — but, Sadness, thy part, 
Deepest of all, was the victor's heart ! 

Ye meet at the bridal with flower and tear, 

Strangely and wildly ye meet by the bier ! 

As the gleam from a sea-bird's white wing shed 

Crosses the storm in its path of dread ; 

As a dirge meets the breeze of a summer sky — 

Sadness and Mirth ! so ye come and fly ! 

Ye meet in the poet's haunted breast, 
Darkness and rainbow, alike its guest ! 
When the breath of the violet is out in spring, 
When the woods with the wakening of music ring, 
O'er his dreamy spirit your currents pass, 
Like shadow and sunlight o'er mountain grass. 

When will your parting be, Sadness and Mirth ? 
Bright stream and dark one ! Oh, never on earth ! 



1 1 6 The Silent Multitude. 

Never while triumphs and tombs are so near, 
While death and love walk the same dim sphere, 
While flowers unfold where the storm may sweep, 
While the heart of man is a soundless deep ! 

But there smiles a land, O ye troubled pair ! 
Where ye have no part in the summer air : 
Far from the breathings of changeful skies, 
Over the seas and the graves it lies ; 
Where the day of the lightning and cloud is done, 
And joy reigns alone, as the lonely sun ! 



THE SILENT MULTITUDE. 

' For ive are many in our solitudes." — Lament of Tasso. 

A MIGHTY and a mingled throng 
Were gathered in one spot ; 
The dwellers of a thousand homes — 
Yet midst them voice was not. 

The soldier and his chief were there — 

The mother and her child : \ 

The friends, the sisters of one hearth — 
None spoke — none moved — none smiled. 

There lovers met, between whose lives 

Years had swept darkly by ; 
After that heart-sick hope deferred, 

They met — but silently. 






The Silent Multitude. 1 1 7 

You might have heard the rustling leaf, 

The breeze's faintest sound, 
The shiver of an insect's wing, 

On that thick-peopled ground. 

Your voice to whispers would have died 

For the deep quiet's sake ; 
Your tread the softest moss have sought, 

Such stillness not to break. 

What held the countless multitude 

Bound in that spell of peace ? 
How could the ever-sounding life 

Amid so many cease ? 

Was it some pageant of the air — 

Some glory high above, 
That linked and hushed those human souls 

In reverential love ? 

Or did some burdening passion's weight 

Hang on their indrawn breath ? 
Awe — the pale awe that freezes words ? 

Fear — the strong fear of death ? 

A mightier thing — Death, Death himself 

Lay on each lonely heart ! 
Kindred were there — yet hermits all, 

Thousands — but each apart. 



n8 No More I 



NO MORE! 

NO MORE ! A harp -string's deep and breaking tone, 
A last, low, summer-breeze, a far-off swell, 
A dying echo of rich music gone, 

Breathe through those words — those murmurs of fare- 
well — 

No more ! 

To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound, 
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice, 

To feel the spirit of her love around, 
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice — 
No more ! 

A dirge-like sound ! To greet the early friend 

Unto the hearth, his place of many days ; 
In the glad song with kindred lips to blend, 

Or join the household laughter by the blaze — . 
No more ! 

Through woods that shadowed our first years to rove 

With all our native music in the air ; 
To watch the sunset with the eyes we love, 

And turn, and read our own heart's answer there — 
No more ! 

Words of despair ! — yet earth's, all earth's the woe 
Their passion breathes — the desolately deep ! 

That sound in heaven — oh ! image then the flow 
Of gladness in its tones — to part, to weep — 
No more ! 



A Thought of the Future. 119 

To watch, in dying hope, affection's wane, 

To see the beautiful from life depart, 
To wear impatiently a secret chain, 

To waste the untold riches of the heart — 
No more ! 

Through long, long years to seek, to strive, to yearn 
For human love — and never quench that thirst ; 

To pour the soul out, winning no return, 
O'er fragile idols, by delusion nursed — 
No more ! 

On things that fail us, reed by reed, to lean, 

To mourn the changed, the far away, the dead ; 

To send our troubled spirits through th' unseen, 
Intensely questioning for treasures fled — 
No more ! 

Words of triumphant music ! Bear we on 
The weight of life, the chain, th' ungenial air ; 

Their deathless meaning, when our tasks are done, 
To learn in joy, — to struggle, to despair — 
No more ! 



A THOUGHT OF THE FUTURE. 



DREA 
Ifl 



P\REAMER! and wouldst thou know 

love goes with us to the viewless bourne ? 
Wouldst thou bear hence th' unfathomed source of woe 
In thy heart's lonely urn ? 



i2o A Thought of the Future. 

What hath it been to thee, 
That power, the dweller of thy secret breast ? 
A dove sent forth across a stormy sea, 

Finding no place of rest : 

A precious odour cast 
On a wild stream, that recklessly swept by ; 
A voice of music uttered to the blast, 

And winning no reply. 

Even were such answer thine, 
Wouldst thou be bless'd ? Too sleepless, too profound, 
Are the soul's hidden springs ; there is no line 

Their depth of love to sound. 

Do not words faint and fail 
When thou wouldst fill them with that ocean's power ? 
As thine own cheek before high thoughts grows pale, 

In some o'erwhelming hour. 

Doth not thy frail form sink 
Beneath the chain that binds thee to one spot, 
When thy heart strives, held down by many a link, 

Where thy beloved are not ? 

Is not thy very soul 
Oft in the gush of powerless blessing shed, 
Till a vain tenderness, beyond control, 

Bows down thy weary head ? 

And wouldst thou bear all this — 
The burden and the shadow of thy life — 
To trouble the blue skies of cloudless bliss 

With earthly feelings' strife ? 



The Death-Song of Alcestis. 121 

Not thus, not thus — oh, no ! 
Not veiled and mantled with dim clouds of care, 
That spirit of my soul should with me go 

To breathe celestial air. 

But as the skylark springs 
To its own sphere, where night afar is driven, 
As to its place the flower-seed findeth wings, 

So must love mount to heaven ! 

Vainly it shall not strive 
There on weak words to pour a stream of fire ; 
Thought unto thought shall kindling impulse give, 

As light might wake a lyre. 



And oh ! its blessings - 
Showered like rich balsam forth on some dear head, 
Powerless no more, a gift shall surely bear, 

A joy of sunlight shed. 

Let me, then — let me dream 
That love goes with us to the shore unknown \ 
So o'er its burning tears a heavenly gleam 

In mercy shall be thrown ! 



THE DEATH-SONG OF ALCESTIS. 

SHE came forth in her bridal robes arrayed, 
And midst the graceful statues, round the hall 
Shedding the calm of their celestial mien, 
Stood pale yet proudly beautiful as they : 



122 The Death-Song of Alcestis. 

Flowers in her bosom, and the star-like gleam 
Of jewels trembling from her braided hair, 
And death upon her brow ! — but glorious death ! 
Her own heart's choice, the token and the seal 
Of love, o'ermastering love ; which, till that hour, 
Almost an anguish in the brooding weight 
Of its unutterable tenderness, 
Had burdened her full soul. But now, oh ! now, 
Its time was come — and from the spirit's depths, 
The passion and the mighty melody 
Of its immortal voice in triumph broke, 
Like a strong rushing wind ! 

The soft pure air 
Came floating through that hall — the Grecian air, 
Laden with music — flute-notes from the vales, 
Echoes of song — the last sweet sounds of life 
And the glad sunshine of the golden clime 
Streamed, as a royal mantle, round her form — 
The glorified of love ! But she — she looked 
Only on him for whom 'twas joy to die, 
Deep — deepest, holiest joy ! Or if a thought 
Of the warm sunlight, and the scented breeze, 
And the sweet Dorian songs, o'erswept the tide 
Of her unswerving soul — 'twas but a thought 
That owned the summer loveliness of life 
For hi?n a worthy offering ! So she stood, 
Wrapt in bright silence, as entranced awhile ; 
Till her eye kindled, and her quivering frame 
With the swift breeze of inspiration shook, 
As the pale priestess trembles to the breath 
Of inborn oracles ! Then flushed her cheek, 
And all the triumph, all the agony, 
Borne on the battling waves of love and death, 



The Death- Song of Alcestis. 123 

All from her woman's heart, in sudden song, 
Burst like a fount of fire. 



"I go, I go! 
Thou sun ! thou golden sun ! I go 

Far from thy light to dwell : 
Thou shalt not find my place below, 
Dim is that world — bright sun of Greece, farewell ! 

' ' The laurel and the glorious rose 

Thy glad beam yet may see ; 
But where no purple summer glows, 
O'er the dark wave, / haste from them and thee. 

' ' Yet doth my spirit faint to part ? 

— I mourn thee not, O sun ! 
Joy, solemn joy o'erflows my heart : 
Sing me triumphal songs ! — my crown is won ! 

1 ' Let not a voice of weeping rise — 

My heart is girt with power ! 
Let the green earth and festal skies 
Laugh, as to grace a conqueror's closing hour ! 

" For thee, for thee, my bosom's lord ! 

Thee, my soul's loved ! I die ; 
Thine is the torch of life restored, 
Mine, mine the rapture, mine the victory ! 

* ' Now may the boundless love, that lay 

Unfathomed still before, 
In one consuming burst find way — 
In one bright flood all, all its riches pour ! 



124 The Death-Song of Alcestis. 

" Thou know'st, thou know'st what love is now! 

Its glory and its might — 
Are they not written on my brow ? 
And will that image ever quit thy sight ? 

' ' No ! deathless in thy faithful breast, 

There shall my memory keep 
Its own bright altar- place of rest, 
While o'er my grave the cypress branches weep. 

" Oh, the glad light ! — the light is fair, 

The soft breeze warm and free ; 
And rich notes fill the scented air, 
And all are gifts — my love's last gifts to thee ! 

' ' Take me to thy warm heart once more ! 

Night falls — my pulse beats low : 
Seek not to quicken, to restore — 
Joy is in every pang. I go, I go ! 

" I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath, 

I meet thy fond look still ; 
Keen is the strife of love and death ; 
Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom's thrill. 

" Yet swells the tide of rapture strong, 

Though mists o'ershade mine eye ! 
— Sing, Paean ! sing a conqueror's song ! 
For thee, for thee, my spirit's lord, I die ! " 



The Palmer. 125 



THE PALMER. 

" The faded palm-branch in his hand 
Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land." — Scott. 

ART thou come from the far-off land at last ? 
Thou that hast wandered long ! 
Thou art come to a home whence the smile hath passed 
With the merry voice of song. 

For the sunny glance and the bounding heart 

Thou wilt seek — but all are gone ; 
They are parted, e'en as waters part, 

To meet in the deep alone ! 

And thou — from thy lip is fled the glow, 

From thine eye the light of morn ; 
And the shades of thought o'erhang thy brow, 

And thy cheek with life is worn. 

Say what hast- thou brought from the distant shore 

For thy wasted youth to pay? 
Hast thou treasure to win thee joys once more ? 

Hast thou vassals to smooth thy way ? 

" I have brought but the palm-branch in my hand, 

Yet I call not my bright youth lost ! 
I have won but high thought in the Holy Land, 

Yet I count not too dear the cost ! 

" I look on the leaves of the deathless tree — 

These records of my track ; 
And better than youth in its flush of glee, 

Are the memories they give me back ! 



126 Dreams of Heaven. 

They speak of toil, and of high emprise, 

As in words of solemn cheer ; 
They speak of lonely victories 

O'er pain, and doubt, and fear. 

" They speak of scenes which have now become 

Bright pictures in my breast ; 
Where my spirit finds a glorious home, 

And the love of my heart can rest. 

" The colours pass not from these away, 

Like tints of shower or sun ; 
Oh ! beyond all treasures that know decay, 

Is the wealth my soul hath won ! 

" A rich light thence o'er my life's decline, 

An inborn light is cast ; 
For the sake of the palm from the holy shrine, 

I bewail not my bright days past ! 



DREAMS OF HEAVEN. 

" We colour heaven with our own human thoughts, 
Our vain aspirings, fond remembrances, 
Our passionate love, that seems tcnto itselj 
A n vmnortality. " 

DREAM' ST thou of heaven? What dreams are thine ? 
Fair child, fair gladsome child ? 
W T ith eyes that like the dewdrop shine, 
And bounding footsteps wild ! 






Dreams of Heaven. 127 

Tell me what hues the immortal shore 

Can wear, my bird ! to thee ? 
Ere yet one shadow hath passed o'er 

Thy glance and spirit free ? 

" Oh ! beautiful is heaven, and bright 

With long, long summer days; 
I see its lilies gleam in light, 

Where many a fountain plays. 

1 i And there unchecked, methinks, I rove, 

And seek where young flowers lie, 
In vale and golden-fruited grove — 

Flowers that are not to die ! " 

Thou poet of the lonely thought, 

Sad heir of gifts divine ! 
Say with what solemn glory fraught 

Is heaven in dreams of thine ? 

" Oh ! where the living waters flow 

Along that radiant shore, 
My soul, a wanderer here, shall know 

The exile thirst no more. 

" The burden of the stranger's heart 

Which here alone I bear, 
Like the night-shadow shall depart, 

With my first wakening there. 

" And borne on eagle wings afar, 

Free thought shall claim its dower, 
From every realm, from eveiy star, 

Of glory and of power." 



128 O ye Hours ! 

O woman ! with the soft sad eye, 

Of spiritual gleam, 
Tell me of those bright worlds on high, 

How doth thy fond heart dream ? 

By the sweet mournful voice I know, 

On thy pale brow I see, 
That thou hast loved, in fear, and woe — 

Say what is heaven to thee ? 

1 ' Oh ! heaven is where no secret dread 
May haunt love's meeting hour, 

Where from the past no gloom is shed 
O'er the heart's chosen bower : 

* l Where every severed wreath is bound — 
Where none have heard the knell 

That smites the heart with that deep sound- 
Fa rezvelt, beloved !—fa rewell I " 



O YE HOURS! 

OYE hours ! ye sunny hours ! 
Floating lightly by, 
Are ye come with birds and flowers, 
Odours and blue sky ? 

"Yes! we come, again we come, 
Through the wood-paths free : 

Bringing many a wanderer home, 
With the bird and bee." 






Oh ! Skylark, for thy Wing ! 129 

O ye hours ! ye sunny hours ! 

Are ye wafting song ? 
Doth wild music stream in showers 

All the groves among ? 

" Yes ! the nightingale is there 

While the starlight reigns, 
Making young leaves and sweet air 

Tremble with her strains." 

O ye hours ! ye sunny hours ! 

In your silent flow, 
Ye are mighty, mighty powers ! 

Bring ye bliss or woe ? 

* * Ask not this — oh ! seek not this ! 

Yield your hearts awhile 
To the soft wind's balmy kiss, 

And the heaven's bright smile. 

" Throw not shades of anxious thought 

O'er the glowing flowers ! 
We are come with sunshine fraught, 

Question not the hours ! " 



OH! SKYLARK, FOR THY WING! 

OH ! Skylark, for thy wing ! 
Thou bird of joy and light, 
That I might soar and sing 
At heaven's empyreal height ! 

I 



130 Near Thee, still near Thee! 

With the heathery hills beneath me 

Whence the streams in glory spring, 
And the pearly clouds to wreathe me, 

Skylark ! on thy wing ! 

Free, free, from earth-born fear, 

1 would range the blessed skies, 
Through the blue divinely clear, 

Where the low mists cannot rise ! 
And a thousand joyous measures 

From my chainless heart should spring, 
Like the bright rain's vernal treasures 

As I wandered on thy wing. 

But oh ! the silver cords 

That around the hearth are spun, 
From gentle tones and words, 

And kind eyes that make our sun ! 
To some low, sweet nest returning, 

How soon my love would bring 
There, there the dews of morning, 

O Skylark ! on thy wing ! 



NEAR THEE, STILL NEAR THEE! 






NEAR thee, still near thee ! — o'er thy pathway gliding, 
Unseen I pass thee with the wind's low sigh ; 
Life's veil enfolds thee still, our eyes dividing, 
Yet viewless love floats round thee silently ! 
Not midst the festal throng, 
In halh of mirth and song; 



The Curfew-Song of England. 131 

But when thy thoughts are deepest, 
When holy tears thou weepest, 

Know then that love is nigh ! 

When the night's whisper o'er thy harp-strings creeping, 
Or the sea-music on the sounding shore, 
Or breezy anthems through the forest sweeping, 
Shall move thy trembling spirit to adore ; 

When every thought and prayer 

We loved to breathe and share, 

On thy full heart returning, 

Shall wake its voiceless yearning; 

Then feel me near once more ! 

Near thee, still near thee ! — trust thy soul's deep dreaming ! 

Oh ! love is not an earthly rose to die ! 

Even when I soar where fiery stars are beaming, 

Thine image wanders with me through the sky. 

The fields of air are free, 

Yet lonely, wanting thee; 

But when thy chains are falling, 

When heaven its own is calling, 

Know then, thy guide is nigh ! 



THE CURFEW T -SONG OF ENGLAND. 

HARK ! from the dim church-tower, 
The deep, slow Curfew's chime ! 
— A heavy sound unto hall and bower 
In England's olden time ! 



2 The Curfew- Song of England. 

Sadly 'twas heard by him who came 

From the fields of his toil at night, 
And who might not see his own hearth-flame 

In his children's eyes make light. 

Sternly and sadly heard, 

As it quenched the wood-fire's glow, 
Which had cheered the board with the mirthful word, 

And the red wine's foaming flow ! 
Until that sullen, boding knell, 

Flung out from every fane, 
On harp, and lip, and spirit, fell, 

With a weight and with a chain. 

Woe for the pilgrim then 

In the wild-deer's forest far ! 
No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men, 

Might guide him, as a star. 
And woe for him whose wakeful soul, 

With lone aspirings filled, 
Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll, 

While the sounds of earth were stilled ! 

And yet a deeper woe 

For the watcher by the bed, 
Where the fondly-loved in pain lay low, 

In pain and sleepless dread ! 
For the mother, doomed unseen to keep 

By the dying babe, her place, 
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep, 

Yet not behold its face ! 

Darkness in chieftain's hall ! 
Darkness in peasant's cot ! 



The Fall of D'Assas. 1 3 j 

While freedom, under that shadowy pall, 

Sat mourning o'er her lot. 
Oh ! the fireside's peace we well may prize ! 

For blood hath flowed like rain, 
Poured forth to make sweet sanctuaries 

Of England's homes again. 

Heap the yule-faggots high 

Till the red light fills the room ! 
It is home's own hour when the stormy sky 

Grows thick with evening gloom. 
Gather ye round the holy hearth, 

And by its gladdening blaze, 
Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, 

With a thought of the olden days ! 



THE FALL OF D'ASSAS. 

A BALLAD OF FRANCE. 

[The Chevalier D'Assas, called the French Decius, fell nobly whilst 
reconnoitring a wood, near Closterkamp, by night. He had left his 
regiment, that of Auvergne, at a short distance, and was suddenly sur- 
rounded by an ambuscade of the enemy, who threatened him with 
instant death if he made the least sign of their vicinity. With their 
bayonets at his breast, he raised his voice, and calling aloud "A moi, 
Auvergne ! ces sont les ennemis !" fell, pierced with mortal blows.] 

ALONE through gloomy forest shades 
A soldier went by night ; 
No moonbeam pierced the dusky glades, 
No star shed guiding light. 



[ 3 4 The Fall of D'Assas. 

Yet on his vigil's midnight round 
The youth all cheerly passed ; 

Unchecked by aught of boding sound 
That muttered in the blast. 

Where were his thoughts that lonely hour ? 

— In his far home, perchance ; 
His father's hall, his mother's bower, 

Midst the gay vines of France : 

Wandering from battles lost and won, 

To hear and bless again 
The rolling of the wide Garonne, 

Or murmur of the Seine. 

Hush ! hark ! — did stealing steps go by ? 

Came not faint whispers near? 
No ! the wild wind hath many a sigh, 

Amidst the foliage sere. 

Hark, yet again ! — and from his hand, 
What grasp hath wrenched the blade? 

— Oh, single midst a hostile band, 
Young soldier ! thou'rt betrayed ! 

" Silence ! " in under-tones they cry — 
' * No whisper — not a breath ! 

The sound that warns thy comrades nigh 
Shall sentence thee to death." 

Still, at the bayonet's point he stood, 
And strong to meet the blow ; 

And shouted, midst his rushing blood, 
" Arm, arm, Auvergne! the foe! " 



J he Call to Battle. 135 

The stir, the tramp, the bugle-call — 

He heard their tumults grow ; 
And sent his dying voice through all — 

" Auvergne, Auvergne! the foe!" 



THE CALL TO BATTLE. 

" Ah I then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And there were sudde7i partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs, 
Which neer 7night be repeated." — Byron. 

THE vesper-bell, from church and tower, 
Had sent its dying sound ; 
And the household, in the hush of eve, 
Were met their porch around. 

A voice rang through the olive wood, with a sudden trump- 
et's power — 

" We rise on all our hills ! Come forth ! 'tis thy country's 
gathering hour ! 

There's a gleam of spears by every stream in each old 
battle-dell. 

Come forth, young Juan ! Bid thy home a brief and proud 
farewell ! " 

Then the father gave his son the sword 
Which a hundred fights had seen — 

1 ' Away ! and bear it back, my boy ! 
All that it still hath been ! " 



136 The Call to Battle. 

1 ' Haste, haste ! The hunters of the foe are up : and who 

shall stand 
The lion-like awakening of the roused indignant land ? 
Our chase shall sound through each defile where swept the 

clarion's blast, 
With the flying footsteps of the Moor, in stormy ages past." 

Then the mother kissed her son with tears 

That o'er his dark locks fell : 
" I bless, I bless thee o'er and o'er, 

Yet I stay thee not — Farewell !" 

' ' One moment ! but one moment give to parting thought or 

word! 
It is no time for woman's tears when manhood's heart is 

stirred. 
Bear but the memory of my love about thee in the fight, 
To breathe upon th' avenging sword a spell of keener might. " 

And a maiden's fond adieu was heard, 

Though deep, yet brief and low : 
1 ' In the vigil, in the conflict, love ! 

My prayer shall with thee go ! " 

"Come forth ! come as the torrent comes when the winter's 

chain is burst ! 
So rushes on the land's revenge, in night and silence nursed. 
The night is passed, the silence o'er — on all our hills we rise : 
We wait thee, youth ! sleep, dream no more ! the voice of 

battle cries." 

There were sad hearts in a darkened home, 
When the brave had left their bower ; 

But the strength of prayer and sacrifice 
Was with them in that hour. 



Come Away I 137 



THE LYRE AND FLOWER. 

A LYRE its plaintive sweetness poured 
Forth on the wild wind's track ; 
The stormy wanderer jarred the chord, 
But gave no music back. — 
O child of song ! 
Bear hence to heaven thy fire : 
What hopest thou from the reckless throng? 
Be not like that lost lyre ! 
Not like that lyre ! 

A flower its leaves and odours cast 

On a swift rolling wave ; 
Th' unheeding torrent darkly passed, 
And back no treasure gave. — 
O heart of love ! 
Waste not thy precious dower : 
Turn to thine only home above ! 
Be not like that lost flower ! 
Not like that flower ! 



COME AWAY! 

COME away ! — the child, where flowers are springing 
Round its footsteps on the mountain-slope, 
Hears a glad voice from the upland singing, 
Like the skylark's with its tone of hope : 
Come away ! 



138 Easter-Day in a Mountain Churchyard. 

Bounding on, with sunny lands before him, 
All the wealth of glowing life outspread, 

Ere the shadow of a cloud comes o'er him, 
By that strain the youth in joy is led : 
Come away ! 

Slowly, sadly, heavy change is falling 
O'er the sweetness of the voice within ; 

Yet its tones, on restless manhood calling, 
Urge the hunter still to. chase, to win : 
Come away ! 

Come away ! — the heart at last forsaken, 

Smile by smile, hath proved each hope untrue ; 

Yet a breath can still those words awaken, 
Though to other shores far hence they woo : 
Come away! 

In the light leaves, in the reed's faint sighing, 
In the low, sweet sounds of early spring, 

Still their music wanders — till the dying 
Hears them pass, as on a spirit's wing : 
Come away ! 



EASTER-DAY 
IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCHYARD. 

THERE is a wakening on the mighty hills, 
A kindling with the spirit of the morn ! 
Bright gleams are scattered from the thousand rills, 
And a soft visionary hue is born 

On the young foliage, worn 



Easter-Day in a Mountain Churchyard. 139 

By all the embosomed woods — a silvery green, 
Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene. 

And lo ! where, floating through a glory, sings 
The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky ! 
Lo ! where the darkness of his buoyant wings, 
Against a soft and rosy cloud on high, 

Trembles with melody ! 
While the far- echoing solitudes rejoice 
To the rich laugh of music in that voice. 

But purer light than of the early sun 
Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth ! 
And for your dwellers nobler joy is won 
Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth, 

By this glad morning's birth ! 
And gifts more precious by its breath are shed 
Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's head. 

Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye 
O'er nature's face the colouring glory flows ; 
Gifts from the "fount of immortality, 
Which, filled with balm, unknown to human woes, 

Lay hushed in dark repose, 
Till thou, bright dayspring ! madest its waves our own, 
By thine unsealing of the burial-stone. 

Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills ! 

And let a full victorious tone be given, 

By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills 

Your urn-like depths with sound ! The tomb is riven, 

The radiant gate of heaven 
Unfolded — and the stern, dark shadow cast 
By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's bosom past. 



140 Easter-Day in a Mountain Churchyard. 

And you, ye graves ! upon whose turf I stand, 
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead, 
Time, with a soft and reconciling hand, 
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread 

O'er every narrow bed : 
But not by time, and not by nature sown 
Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown. 

Christ hath arisen ! Oh, not one cherished head 
Hath, midst the flowery sods, been pillowed here, 
Without a hope (howe'er the heart hath bled 
In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier), 

A hope, upsp ringing clear 
From those majestic tidings of the morn, 
Which lit the living way to all of woman born. 

Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love ! 
E'en on this greensward : night hath heard thy cry, 
Heart-stricken one ! thy precious dust above — 
Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply 

Unto thine agony ! 
But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide, 
Christ hath arisen, O love ! thy tears shall all be dried. 

Dark must have been the gushing of those tears, 
Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb 
On thine impassioned soul, in elder years, 
When, burdened with the mystery of its doom, 

Mortality's thick gloom 
Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath 
Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death. 

By thee, sad Love ! and by thy sister, Fear, 
Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought 



Easter- Day in a Mountain Churchyard. 141 

To vail that haunting shadow, still too near, 
Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought, 
And where the board was fraught 
With wine and myrtles in the summer bower, 
Felt, e'en when disavowed, a presence and a power. 



But that dark night is closed : and o'er the dead, 
Here, where the gleamy primrose-tufts have blown, 
And where the mountain-heath a couch has spread, 
And, settling oft on some grey, lettered stone, 

The redbreast warbles lone ; 
And the wild-bee's deep drowsy murmurs pass, 
Like a low thrill of harp-strings, through the grass : 

Here, midst the chambers of the Christian's sleep, 
We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye ; 
For Hope sits, dovelike, on the gloomy deep, 
And the green hills wherein these valleys lie 

Seem all one sanctuary 
Of holiest thought — nor needs their fresh, bright sod, 
Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God. 

Christ hath arisen ! O mountain-peaks ! attest — 
Witness, resounding glen and torrent wave ! 
The immortal courage in the human breast 
Sprung from that victory — tell how oft the brave 

To camp midst rock and cave, 
Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne, 
Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn ! 

The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day — 
Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone 



142 Easter-Day in a Mountain Churchyard. 

Have thrilled their pines, when those that knelt to pray 
Rose up to arm ! The pure, high snows have known 

A colouring not their own, « 

But from true hearts, which, by that crimson stain, 
Gave token of a trust that called no suffering vain. 

Those days are past — the mountains wear no more 
The solemn splendour of the martyr's blood ; 
And may that awful record, as of yore, 
Never again be known to field or flood ! 
E'en though the faithful stood, 
A noble army, in the exulting sight 
Of earth and heaven, which blessed their battle for the right ! 

But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken 
Is yet borne silently in homes obscure ; 
And many a bitter cup is meekly taken ; 
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure 

Thus steadfastly endure, 
Glory to Him whose victory won that dower ! 
Him from whose rising streamed that robe of spirit-power. 

Glory to Him ! Hope to the suffering breast ! 
Light to the nations ! He hath rolled away 
The mists which, gathering into deathlike rest, 
Between the soul and heaven's calm ether lay — 

His love hath made it day 
With those that sat in darkness. Earth and sea ! 
Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free ! 






The Name of England. 1 43 



THE NAME OF ENGLAND. 

THE trumpet of the battle 
Hath a high and thrilling tone ; 
And the first deep gun of an ocean-fight 
Dread music all its own. 

But a mightier power, my England ! 

Is in that name of thine, 
To strike the fire from every heart 

Along the bannered line. 

Proudly it woke the spirits 

Of yore, the brave and true, 
When the bow was bent on Cressy's field, 

And the yeoman's arrow flew. 

And proudly hath it floated 

Through the battles of the sea, 
When the red-cross flag o'er smoke-wreaths played, 

Like the lightning in its glee. 

On rock, on wave, on bastion, 

Its echoes have been known ; 
By a thousand streams the hearts lie low 

That have answered to its tone. 

A thousand ancient mountains 

Its pealing note hath stirred, — 
Sound on, and on, for evermore, 

O thou victorious word ! 



144 A Prayer of Affection, 



A PRAYER OF AFFECTION. 

BLESSINGS, O Father! shower- 
Father of Mercies ! round his precious head ! 
On his lone walks and on his thoughtful hour, 
And the pure visions of his midnight bed, 
Blessings be shed ! 

Father ! I pray thee not 
For earthly treasure to that most beloved — 
Fame, fortune, power : oh ! be his spirit proved 
By these, or by their absence, at thy will ! 
But let thy peace be wedded to his lot, 
Guarding his inner life from touch of ill, 

With its dove-pinion still ! 

Let such a sense of thee, 
Thy watching presence, thy. sustaining love, 
His bosom-guest inalienably be, 

That wheresoe'er he move, 

A heavenly light serene 

Upon his heart and mien 
May sit undimmed ! a gladness rest his own, 
Unspeakable, and to the world unknown ! 
Such as from childhood's morning land of dreams, 

Remembered faintly, gleams — 
Faintly remembered, and too swiftly flown ! 

So let him walk with thee, 
Made by thy Spirit free ; 
And when thou call'st him from his mortal place, 



A Thought of Paradise. 145 

To his last hour be still that sweetness given, 
That joyful trust ! and brightly let him part, 
With lamp clear burning, and unlingering heart, 

Mature to meet in heaven 

His Saviour's face ! 



A THOUGHT OF PARADISE. 

" We receive but what we give, 
And in our life alone does nature live; 
Ours is 07tr wedding-gar7?ie7it, ours her shroud: 
And, wo7tld we aught behold of higher worth 
Than that inanimate, cold zuorld allowed 
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd, 
Ah I fro77i the soul itself 77tust issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair lu77ii7ious cloud, 

E7ivelopi7ig the earth ; 
And from the soul itself 77iust there be se7it 
A sweet a7id potent voice of its oiu7i birth, 
Of all sweet sounds the life a7id element." — Coleridge. 

GREEN spot of holy ground ! 
If thou couldst yet be found, 
Far in deep woods, with all thy starry flowers ; 
If not one sullying breath 
Of time, or change, or death, 
Had touched the vernal glory of thy bowers ; 

Might our tired pilgrim-feet, 
Worn by the desert's heat, 
On the bright freshness of thy turf repose ? 
K 



146 A Thought of Paradise. 

Might our eyes wander there 
Through heaven's transparent air, 
And rest on colours of th' immortal rose ? 

Say, would thy balmy skies 

And fountain melodies 
Our heritage of lost delight restore ? 

Could thy soft honey- dews 

Through all our veins diffuse 
The early, childlike, trustful sleep once more ? 

And might we, in the shade 

By thy tall cedars made, 
With angel- voices high communion hold ? 

Would their sweet, solemn tone 

Give back the music gone, 
Our Being's harmony, so jarred of old ? 

Oh no ! — thy sunny hours 

Might come with blossom-showers, 
All thy young leaves to spirit-lyres might thrill ; 

But we — should we not bring 

Into thy realms of spring 
The shadows of our souls to haunt us still ? 



What could thy flowers and airs 

Do for our earth-born cares ? 
Would the world's chain melt off and leave, us free ? 

No ! — past each living stream, 

Still would some fever dream 
Track the lorn wanderers, meet no more for thee ! 

Should we not shrink with fear 
If angel -steps were near, 



Our Daily Paths. 147 

Feeling our burdened souls within us die ? 

How might our passions brook 

The still and searching look, 
The starlike glance of seraph purity ? 

Thy golden-fruited grove 

Was not for pining love ; 
Vain sadness would but dim thy crystal skies ! 

Oh ! thou wert but a part 

Of what man's exiled heart 
Hath lost — the dower of inborn Paradise ! 



OUR DAILY PATHS. 

" Naught shall prevail against -us, or disturb 
Our cheerf til faith that all which ive behold 
Is full of blessings. " — Wordsworth. 

THERE'S beauty all around our paths, if but our watch- 
ful eyes 
Can trace it midst familiar things, and through their lowly 

guise ; 
We may find it where a hedgerow showers its blossoms o'er 

our way, 
Or a cottage window sparkles forth in the last red light of 
day. 

We may find it where a spring shines clear beneath an aged 

tree, 
With the foxglove o'er the water's glass, borne downwards 

by the bee ; 



148 Our Daily Paths. 

Or where a swift and sunny gleam on the birchen stems is 

thrown, 
As a soft wind playing parts the leaves, in copses green and 

lone. 

We may find it in the winter boughs, as they cross the cold 

blue sky, 
While soft on icy pool and stream their penciled shadows 

lie, 
When we look upon their tracery, by the fairy frost-work 

bound, 
Whence the flitting redbreast shakes a shower of crystals 

to the ground. 

Yes ! beauty dwells in all our paths — but sorrow too is 

there : 
How oft some cloud within us dims the bright, still summer 

air! 
When we carry our sick hearts abroad amidst the joyous 

things, 
That through the leafy places glance on many-coloured 

wings, 

With shadows from the past we fill the happy woodland 
shades, 

And a mournful memory of the dead is with us in the 
glades ; 

And our dream-like fancies lend the wind an echo's plain- 
tive tone 

Of voices, and of melodies, and of silvery laughter gone. 

But are we free to do even thus — to wander as we will, 
Bearing sad visions through the grove, and o'er the breezy 
hill ? 



Our Daily Paths. 149 

No ! in our daily paths lie cares, that ofttimes bind us fast, 
While from their narrow round we see the golden day fleet 
past. 

They hold us from the woodlark's haunts, and violet dingles, 

back, 
And from all the lovely sounds and gleams in the shining 

river's track; 
They bar us from our heritage of spring-time, hope, and 

mirth, 
And weigh our burdened spirits down with the cumbering 

dust of earth. 

Yet should this be ? Too much, too soon, despondingly we 

yield ! 
A better lesson we are taught by the lilies of the field ! 
A sweeter by the birds of heaven — which tell us, in their 

flight, 
Of One that through the desert air for ever guides them 

right. 

Shall not this knowledge calm our hearts, and bid vain con- 
flicts cease ? 

Ay, when they commune with themselves in holy hours of 
peace, 

And feel that by the lights and clouds through which our 
pathway lies, 

By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the 
skies ! 



150 The Water-Lily. 



THE WATER-LILY. 

OH ! beautiful thou art, 
Thou sculpture-like and stately river-queen ! 
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene 
Of a pure heart. 

Bright lily of the wave ! 
Rising in fearless grace with every swell, 
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave 

Dwelt in thy cell : 

Lifting alike thy head 
Of placid beauty, feminine yet free, 
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread 

The waters be. 

What is like thee, fair flower, 
The gentle and the firm ! thus bearing up 
To the blue sky that alabaster cup, 

As to the shower? 

Oh ! love is most like thee, 
The love of woman ! quivering to the blast 
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fast, 

Midst life's dark sea. 

And faith — oh, is not faith 
Like thee, too, lily ! springing into light, 
Still buoyantly, above the billows' might, 

Through the storm's breath ? 






The Hour of Prayer. 151 

Yes ! linked with such high thought, 
Flower ! let thine image in my bosom lie ; 
Till something there of its own purity 

And peace be wrought — 

Something yet more divine 
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed 
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed, 

As from a shrine. 



THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 

" Pregar, firegar, firegar, 
Cti altro fionno i mortali al fiia.7iger nati ? " — Alfieri. 

CHILD, amidst the flowers at play, 
While the red light fades away ; 
Mother, with thine earnest eye 
Ever following silently ; 
Father, by the breeze of eve 
Called thy harvest-work to leave — 
Pray : ere yet the dark hours be, 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 

Traveller, in the stranger's land, 
Far from thine own household band ; 
Mourner, haunted by the tone 
Of a voice from this world gone ; 
Captive, in whose narrow cell 
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell; 
Sailor on the darkening sea — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! ' 



152 The Wakening. 

Warrior, that from battle won 
Breathest now at set of sun ; 
Woman, o'er the lowly slain 
Weeping on his burial-plain ; 
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
Kindred by one holy tie, 
Heaven's first star alike ye see — 
Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 



THE WAKENING. 

HOW many thousands are wakening now ! 
Some to the songs from the forest bough, 
To the rustling of leaves at the lattice pane, 
To the chiming fall of the early rain. 

And some, far out on the deep mid-sea, 
To the dash of the waves in their foaming glee, 
As they break into spray on the ship's tall side, 
That holds through the tumult her path of pride. 

And some — oh, well may their hearts rejoice ! — 
To the gentle sound of a mother's voice : 
Long shall they yearn for that kindly tone, 
When from the board and the hearth 'tis gone. 

And some, in the camp, to the bugle's breath, 
And the tramp of the steed on the echoing heath, 
And the sudden roar of the hostile gun, 
Which tells that a field must ere night be won. 



The Forsaken Hearth. 153 

And some, in the gloomy convict cell, 

To the dull deep note of the warning bell, 

As it heavily calls them forth to die, 

When the bright sun mounts in the laughing sky. 

And some to the peal of the hunter's horn, 
And some to the din from the city borne, 
And some to the rolling of torrent floods, 
Far midst old mountains and solemn woods. 

So are we roused on this checkered earth : 
Each unto light hath a daily birth; 
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet, 
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet. 

But one must the sound be, and one the call, 
Which from the dust shall awaken us all : 
One ! — but to severed and distant dooms, 
How shall the sleepers arise from the tombs ? 



THE FORSAKEN HEARTH. 

" Was mirfehlt ? — Mirfehltja alles, 
Bin so ganz verlassen hier I " — Tyrolese Melody. 

THE Hearth, the Hearth is desolate ! the fire is quenched 
and gone 
That into happy children's eyes once brightly laughing 

shone ; 
The place where mirth and music met is hushed through 

day and night. 
Oh ! for one kind, one sunny face, of all that there made 
light ! 



154 The Forsaken Hearth. 

But scattered are those pleasant smiles afar by mount and 

shore, 
Like gleaming waters from one spring dispersed to meet no 

more. 
Those kindred eyes reflect not now each other's joy or 

mirth, 
Unbound is that sweet wreath of home — alas ! the lonely 

hearth ! 

The voices that have mingled here now speak another 

tongue, 
Or breathe, perchance, to alien ears the songs their mother 

sung. 
Sad, strangely sad, in stranger lands, must sound each 

household tone : 
The hearth, the hearth is desolate ! the bright fire quenched 

and gone ! 

But are they speaking, singing yet, as in their days of 

glee? 
Those voices, are they lovely still, still sweet on earth 

or sea ? 
Oh ! some are hushed, and some are changed, and never 

shall one strain 
Blend their fraternal cadences triumphantly again. 

And of the hearts that here were linked by long-remembered 

years, 
Alas ! the brother knows not now when fall the sister's 

tears! 
One haply revels at the feast, while one may droop alone : 
For broken is the household chain, the bright fire quenched 

and gone ! 



The Wings of the Dove, 155 

Not so — 'tis not a broken chain; thy memory binds them 

still, 
Thou holy hearth of other days ! though silent now and chill. 
The smiles, the tears, the rites, beheld by thine attesting 

stone, 
Have yet a living power to mark thy children for thine own. 

The father's voice, the mother's prayer, though called from 

earth away, 
With music rising from the dead, their spirits yet shall 

sway ; 
And by the past, and by the grave, the parted yet are one, 
Though the loved hearth be desolate, the bright fire quenched 

and gone ! 



THE WINGS OF THE DOVE. 



1 Oh that I had wings like a dove ! for then wotdd I fly away 
and be at rest ." — Psalm lv. 



OH, for thy wings, thou dove ! 
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast ; 
That, borne like thee above, 
I too might flee away, and be at rest ! 

Where wilt thou fold those plumes, 
Bird of the forest-shadows, holiest bird ? 

In what rich leafy glooms, 
By the sweet voice of hidden waters stirred ? 



156 The Wings of the Dove. 

Over what blessed home, 
What roof with dark, deep summer foliage crowned, 

O fair as ocean's foam ! 
Shall thy bright bosom shed a gleam around ? 

Or seek'st thou some old shrine 
Of nymph or saint, no more by votary wooed, 

Though still, as if divine, 
Breathing a spirit o'er the solitude? 

Yet wherefore ask thy way ? 
Blest, ever blest, whate'er its aim, thou art ! 

Unto the greenwood spray, 
Bearing no dark remembrance at thy heart ! 

No echoes that will blend 
A sadness with the whispers of the grove ; 

No memory of a friend 
Far off, or dead, or changed to thee, thou dove ! 

Oh ! to some cool recess 
Take, take me with thee on the summer wind, 

Leaving the weariness 
And all the fever of this life behind : 

The aching and the void 
Within the heart, whereunto none reply, 

The young bright hopes destroyed — 
Bird ! bear me with thee through the sunny sky ! 

Wild wish, and longing vain, 
And brief upspringing to be glad and free ! 

Go to thy woodland reign ! 
My soul is bound and held — I may not flee. 



The Homes of England. 157 

For even by all the fears 
And thoughts that haunt my dreams — untold, unknown, 

And burning woman's tears, 
Poured from mine eyes in silence and alone ; 

Had I thy wings, thou dove ! 
High midst the gorgeous isles of cloud to soar, 

Soon the strong cords of love 
Would draw me earthwards — homewards — yet once more. 



THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 

" Where's the coward that would not dare 
To fight for such a land ? " — Marmion. 

THE stately homes of England ! 
How beautiful they stand, 
Amidst their tall ancestral trees, 

O'er all the pleasant land ! 
The deer across their greensward bound, 

Through shade and sunny gleam ; 
And the swan glides past them with the sound 
Of some rejoicing stream. 

The merry homes of England ! 

Around their hearths by night, 
What gladsome looks of household love 

Meet in the ruddy light ! 



158 The Homes of England. 

There woman's voice flows forth in song, 

Or childhood's tale is told, 
Or lips move tunefully along 

Some glorious page of old. 

The blessed homes of England ! 

How softly on their bowers 
Is laid the holy quietness 

That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 
Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 

Floats through their woods at morn; 
All other sounds, in that still time, 

Of breeze and leaf are born. 



The cottage homes of England ! 

By thousands on her plains, 
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, 

And round the hamlet fanes. 
Through glowing orchards forth they peep, 

Each from its nook of leaves ; 
And fearless there the lowly sleep, 

As the bird beneath their eaves. 

The free, fair homes of England ! 

Long, long, in hut and hall, 
May hearts of native proof be reared 

To guard each hallowed wall ! 
And green for ever be the groves, 

And bright the flowery sod, 
Where first the child's glad spirit loves 

Its country and its God ! 



The Storm of Delphi. 159 



THE STORM OF DELPHI. 

FAR through the Delphian shades 
An Eastern trumpet rung ! 
And the startled eagle rushed on high, 
With a sounding flight through the fiery sky; 
And banners, o'er the shadowy glades, 
To the sweeping winds were flung. 

Banners, with deep-red gold 
All waving as a flame, 
And a fitful glance from the bright spear-head 
On the dim wood-paths of the mountain shed, 
And a peal of Asia's war-notes told 
That in arms the Persian came. 

He came with starry gems 
On his quiver and his crest ; 
With starry gems, at whose heart the day 
Of the cloudless Orient burning lay, 

And they cast a gleam on the laurel-stems, 
As onward his thousands pressed. 

But a gloom fell o'er their way, 
And a heavy moan went by ! 
A moan, yet not like the wind's low swell, 
When its voice grows wild amidst cave and dell, 
But a mortal murmur of dismay, 
Or a warrior's dying sigh ! 



160 The Storm of Delphi. 

A gloom fell o'er their way ! 
'Twas not the shadow cast 
By the dark pine boughs, as they crossed the blue 
Of the Grecian heavens with their solemn hue ; 
The air was filled with a mightier sway — 
But on the spearmen passed ! 

And hollow to their tread 

Came the echoes of the ground ; 
And banners drooped, as with dews o'erborne, 
And the wailing blast of the battle-horn 
Had an altered cadence, dull and dead, 
Of strange foreboding sound. 

But they blew a louder strain, 

When the steep defiles were passed ! 
And afar the crowned Parnassus rose, 
To shine through heaven with his radiant snows, 
And in golden light the Delphian fane 
Before them stood at last ! 

In golden light it stood, 

Midst the laurels gleaming lone; 
For the Sun-god yet, with a lovely smile, 
O'er its graceful pillars looked awhile — 
Though the stormy shade on cliff and wood 
Grew deep round its mountain-throne. 

And the Persians gave a shout ! 
But the marble walls replied 
With a clash of steel and a sullen roar 
Like heavy wheels on the ocean-shore, 
And a savage trumpet's note pealed out, 
Till their hearts for terror died ! 









The Storm of Delphi. 1 6 1 

On the armour of the god 

Then a viewless hand was laid ; 
There were helm and spear, with a clanging din, 
And corselet brought from the shrine within, 
From the inmost shrine of the dread abode, 
And before its front arrayed. 

And a sudden silence fell 

Through the dim and loaded air ! 
On the wild-bird's wing and the myrtle spray, 
And the very founts in their silvery way : 
With a weight of sleep came down the spell, 
Till man grew breathless there. 

But the pause was broken soon ! 
'Twas not by song or lyre; 
For the Delphian maids had left their bowers, 
And the hearths were lone in the city's towers, 
But there burst a sound through the misty noon — 
That battle-noon of fire ! 

It burst from earth and heaven ! 
It rolled from crag and cloud ! 
For a moment on the mountain-blast 
With a thousand stormy voices passed ; 

And the purple gloom of the sky was riven, 
When the thunder pealed aloud. 

And the lightnings in their play 
Flashed forth, like javelins thrown : 
Like sun-darts winged from the silver bow, 
They smote the spear and the turbaned brow ; 

And the bright gems flew from the crests like spray, 
And the banners were struck down ! 

L 



1 62 The Storm of Delphi. 

And the massy oak-boughs crashed 
To the fire-bolts from on high, 
And the forest lent its billowy roar, 
While the glorious tempest onward bore, 

And lit the streams, as they foamed and dashed, 
With the fierce rain sweeping by. 



Then rushed the Delphian men 
On the pale and scattered host. 
Like the joyous burst of a flashing wave, 
They rushed from the dim Corycian cave ; 
And the singing blast o'er wood and glen 
Rolled on, with the spears they tossed. 

There were cries of wild dismay, 
There were shouts of warrior-glee, 
There were savage sounds of the tempest's mirth, 
That shook the realm of their eagle-birth ; 
But the mount of song, when they died away, 
Still rose, with its temple, free ! 

And the Paean swelled ere long, 
Io Paean ! from the fane ; 
Io Paean ! for the war-array 
On the crowned Parnassus riven that day ! 

— Thou shalt rise as free, thou mount of song ! 
With thy bounding streams again. 






Ivan the Czar, 163 



IVAN THE CZAR. 

["Ivan le Terrible, etant deja devenu vieux, assiegait Novgorod. 
Les Boyards, le voyant affoibli, lui demanderent s'ii ne voulait pas 
donner le commandement de l'assaut a son fils. Sa fureur fut si grande 
a cette proposition, que rien ne put l'appaiser ; son fils se prosterna a 
ses pieds ; il le repoussa avec un coup d'une telle violence, que deux 
jours apres le malheureux en mourut. Le pere, alors au desespoir, 
devint indifferent a la guerre corame au pouvoir, et ne survecut que peu 
de mois a son fils." — Dix Annees d'Exil, par Madame de Stael.] 

" Gieb diesen Todten mir heraus. Ich muss 
Ihn wieder hoben /...-. 

Trostlose allmacht, 
Die nicht einmal in Graber ihren arm 
Verlangern, eine kleine Ubereilung 
Mit Menschenleben nicht verbessern kann ! " — Schiller, 

HE sat in silence on the ground, 
The old and haughty Czar, 
Lonely, -though princes girt him round, 

And leaders of the war ; 
He had cast his jewelled sabre, 
That many a field had won, 
To the earth beside his youthful dead — 
His fair and first-born son. 

With a robe of ermine for its bed 

Was laid that form of clay, 
Where the light a stormy sunset shed 

Through the rich tent made way ; 
And a sad and solemn beauty 

On the pallid face came down, 
Which the lord of nations mutely watched, 

In the dust, with his renown. 



164 Ivan the Czar. 

Low tones, at last, of woe and fear, 

From his full bosom broke — 
A mournful thing it was to hear 

How then the proud man spoke ! 
The voice that through the combat 

Had shouted far and high, 
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones, 

Burdened with agony. 

" There is no crimson on thy cheek, 

And on thy lip no breath ; 
I call thee, and thou dost not speak — 

They tell me this is death ! 
And fearful things are whispering 

That I the deed have done — 
For the honour of thy father's name, 

Look up, look up, my son ! 

" Well might I know death's hue and mien- 

But on thine aspect, boy ! 
What, till this moment, have I seen 

Save pride and tameless joy ? 
Swiftest thou wert to battle, 

And bravest there of all — 
How could I think a warrior's frame 

Thus like a flower should fall ? 

" I will not bear that still cold look — 

Rise up, thou fierce and free ! 
Wake as the storm wakes ! I will brook 

All, save this calm, from thee ! 
Lift brightly up, and proudly, 

Once more thy kindling eyes ! 
Hath my word lost its power on earth ? 

I say to thee, arise ! 



Ivan the Czar. 165 

* ' Didst thou not know I loved thee well ? 

Thou didst not ! and art gone, 
In bitterness of soul, to dwell ■ 

Where man must dwell alone. 
Come back, young fiery spirit ! 

If but one hour, to learn 
The secrets of the folded heart 

That seemed to thee so stern. 

" Thou wert the first, the first, fair child 

That in mine arms I pressed : 
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled 

like summer on my breast ! 
I reared thee as an eagle, 

To the chase thy steps I led, 
I bore thee on my battle-horse, 

I look upon thee — dead ! 

" Lay down my warlike banners here, 

Never again to wave, 
And bury- my -red sword and spear, 

Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave ! 
And leave me ! — I have conquered, 

I have slain : my work is done ! 
Whom have I slain ? Ye answer not — 

Thou too art mute, my son ! " 

And thus his wild lament was poured 

Through the dark resounding night, 
And the battle knew no more his sword, 

Nor the foaming steed his might. 
He heard strange voices moaning 

In every wind that sighed ; 
From the searching stars of heaven he shrank — 

Humbly the conqueror died. 



1 6 6 The Death- Day of Korner. 



THE DEATH-DAY OF KORNER. 

A SONG for the death-day of the brave— 
A song of pride ! 
The youth went down to a hero's grave, 
With the sword, his bride. 

He went, with his noble heart unworn, 

And pure, and high — 
An eagle stooping from clouds of morn, 

Only to die. 

He went with the lyre, whose lofty tone 

Beneath his hand 
Had thrilled to the name of his God alone 

And his fatherland. 

And with all his glorious feelings yet 

In their first glow, 
Like a southern stream that no frost hath met 

To chain its flow. 

A song for the death-day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave, 

With the sword, his bride. 

lie hath left a voice in his trumpet lays 

To turn the flight, 
And a guiding spirit for after days, 

Like a watchflre's light. 



The Birds of Passage. 167 

And a grief in his father's soul to rest, 

Midst all high thought ; 
And a memory unto his mother's breast, 

With healing fraught. 



And a name and fame above the blight 

Of earthly breath, 
Beautiful — beautiful and bright, 

In life and death ! 

A song for the death-day of the brave — 

A song of pride ! 
For him that went to a hero's grave, 

With the sword, his bride ! 



THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing ! 
Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring ? 
" We come from the shores of the green old Nile, 
From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, 
From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, 
From the myrrh- trees of glowing Araby. 

* ' We have swept o'er cities in song renowned — 
Silent they lie with the deserts round ! 
We have crossed proud rivers, whose tide hath rolled 
All dark with the warrior-blood of old ; 



1 68 The Birds of Passage. 

And each worn wing hath regained its home, 
Under peasant's roof- trees or monarch's dome." 



And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, 
Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam ? — 
" We have found a change, we have found a pall, 
And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall, 
And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt — 
Naught looks the same, save the nest we built ! " 

O joyous birds ! it hath still been so ; 
Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go ! 
But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep, 
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep : 
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot, 
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot ? — 

" A change we have found there — and many a change ! 

Faces and footsteps, and all things strange ! 

Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, 

And the young that were have a brow of care, 

And the place is hushed where the children played — 

Naught looks the same, save the nest we made ! " 

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, 
Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth ! 
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air 
Ye have a guide, and shall we despair ? 
Ye over desert and deep have passed — 
So may we reach our bright home at last ! 



The Deserted House. 169 



THE DESERTED HOUSE. 

GLOOM is upon thy lonely hearth, 
O silent house ! once filled with mirth ; 
Sorrow is in the breezy sound 
Of thy tall poplars whispering round. 

The shadow of departed hours 
Hangs dim upon thine early flowers ; 
Even in thy sunshine seems to brood 
Something more deep than solitude. 

Fair art thou, fair to a stranger's gaze, 
Mine own sweet home of other days ! 
My children's birthplace !— yet for me 
It is too much to look on thee. 

Too much ! for all about thee spread, 
I feel the memory of the dead, 
And almost linger for the feet 
That never more my step shall meet. 

The looks, the smiles, all vanished now, 
Follow me where thy roses blow ; 
The echoes of kind household-words 
Are with me midst thy singing-birds. 

Till my heart dies, it dies away 
In yearnings for what might not stay ; 
For love which ne'er deceived my trust, 
For all which went with " dust to dust !" 



170 The Deserted House, 

What now is left me, but to raise 
From thee, lorn spot ! my spirit's gaze, 
To lift through tears my straining eye 
Up to my Father's house on high ? 

Oh ! many are the mansions there, 
But not in one hath grief a share ! 
No haunting shade from things gone by 
May there o'ersweep th' unchanging sky. 

And they are there, whose long-loved mien 
In earthly home no more is seen ; 
Whose places, where they smiling sate, 
Are left unto us desolate. 

We miss them when the board is spread ; 
We miss them when the prayer is said ; 
Upon our dreams their dying eyes 
In still and mournful fondness rise. 

But they are where these longings vain 
Trouble no more the heart and brain ; 
The sadness of this aching love 
Dims not our Father's house above. 

Ye are at rest, and I in tears, 
Ye dwellers of immortal spheres ! 
Under the poplar boughs I stand, 
And mourn the broken household band. 

But, by your life of lowly faith, 
And by your joyful hope in death, 
Guide me, till on some brighter shore 
The severed wreath is bound once more ! 









The Song of Night. 171 

Holy ye were, and good, and true ! 
No change can cloud my thoughts of you ; 
Guide me, like you to live and die, 
And reach my Father's house on high ! 



THE SONG OF NIGHT. 

" O night, 
And storm, and darkness I ye are ivondrotts strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength J " — Byron. 

I COME to thee, O Earth! 
With all my gifts ! — for every flower sweet dew 
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew 
The glory of its birth. 

Not one which glimmering lies 
Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves, 
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives 

A spirit of fresh dyes. 

I come with every star ; 
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track 
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back, 

Mirrors of worlds afar. 

I come with peace, — I shed 
Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey-bee, 
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, 

The hyacinth's meek head. 



172 The Song of Night. 

On my own heart I lay 
The weary babe ; and sealing with a breath 
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath 

The shadowing lids to play. 

I come with mightier things ! 
Who calls me silent ? I have many tones — 
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans, 

Borne on my sweeping wings. 

I waft them not alone 
From the deep organ of the forest shades, 
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades 

Till the bright day is done ; 

But in the human breast 
A thousand still small voices I awake, 
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake 

The mantle of its rest. 

I bring them from the past : 
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, 
From crushed affections, which, though long o'erborne, 

Make their tones heard at last. 

I bring them from the tomb : 
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love 
They pass — though low as murmurs of a dove — 

Like trumpets through the gloom. 

I come with all my train : 
Who calls me lonely ? Hosts around me tread, 
Th' intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead — 

Phantoms of heart and brain ! 



The Lyres Lament. 173 

Looks from departed eyes, 
These are my lightnings ! — filled with anguish vain, 
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain, 

They smite with agonies. 

I, that with soft control, 
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, 
I am th' avenging one ! — the armed, the strong — 

The searcher of the soul ! 

I, that shower dewy light 
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms — the tempest birth 
Of memory, thought, remorse ! Be holy, Earth ! 

I am the solemn Night ! 



THE LYRE'S LAMENT. 

"A large lyre hzing in an opening of the rock, and gave forth its 
melancholy music to the wind — but no huma7i being was to be seen." 

— Salathiel. 

A DEEP-TONED lyre hung murmuring 
To the wild wind of the sea ; 
" O melancholy wind," it sighed, 
" What would thy breath with me? 

" Thou canst not wake the spirit 

That in me slumbering lies, 
Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire 

Of buried melodies. 



174 The Lyre's Lament 

" Wind of the dark sea- waters ! 

Thou dost but sweep my strings 
Into wild gusts of mournfulness, 

With the rushing of thy wings. 

" But the spell — the gift — the lightning — 

Within my frame concealed, 
Must I moulder on the rock away 

With their triumphs unrevealed ? 

* ' I have power, high power, for freedom 

To wake the burning soul ! 
I have sounds that through the ancient hills 

Like a torrent's voice might roll. 

" I have pealing notes of victory 
That might welcome kings from war; 

I have rich, deep tones to send the wail 

For a hero's death afar. 

" I have chords to lift the poean 

From the temple to the sky, 
Full as the forest-unisons 

When sweeping winds are high. 

" And love — for love's lone sorrow 

I have accents that might swell 
Through the summer air with the rose's breath, 

Or the violet's faint farewell : 

II Soft — spiritual — mournful — 
Sighs in each note enshrined — 

But who shall call that sweetness forth ? 
77wu canst not, ocean-wind ! 



The Sleeper, 175 

" I pass without my glory, 

Forgotten I decay — 
Where is the touch to give me life ? 

—Wild, fitful wind, away!" 

So sighed the broken music 

That in gladness had no part — 
How like art thou, neglected Lyre ! 

To many a human heart ! 



THE SLEEPER. 

OH ! lightly, lightly tread ! 
A holy thing is sleep, 
On the worn spirit shed, 

And eyes that wake to weep. 

A holy thing from heaven, 
A gracious dewy cloud, 

A covering mantle given 
The weary to enshroud. 

Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 

Revere the pale still brow, 
The meekly drooping head, 

The long hair's willowy flow. 

Ye know not what ye do, 
That call the slumberer back 

From the world unseen by you 
Unto life's dim, faded track. 



176 A Parting Song. 

Her soul is far away, 

In her childhood's land perchance, 
Where her young sisters play, 

Where shines her mother's glance. 

Some old sweet native sound 
Her spirit haply weaves ; 

A harmony profound 

Of woods with all their leaves ; 

A murmur of the sea, 

A laughing tone of streams : — 

Long may her sojourn be 
In the music -land of dreams ! 

Each voice of love is there, 
Each gleam of beauty fled, 

Each lost one still more fair — 
Oh ! lightly, lightly tread ! 



A PARTING SONG. 

" O tries amis I rapellez-vous quelquefois mes vers ! mon ame y est 
em^rez'nte."—CoRiNNE. 

WHEN will ye think of me, my friends ? 
When will ye think of me ? 
When the last red light, the farewell of day, 
From the rock and the river is passing away — 
When the air with a deepening hush is fraught, 
And the heart grows burdened with tender thought, 
Then let it be ! 






Woman and Fame. 177 

When will ye think of me, kind friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the rose of the rich midsummer-time 
Is filled with the hues of its glorious prime — 
When ye gather its bloom, as in bright hours fled, 
From the walks where my footsteps no more may tread — 
Then let it be ! 

When will ye think of me, sweet friends ? 

When will ye think of me ? — 
When the sudden tears o'ernow your eye 
At the sound of some olden melody — 
When ye hear the voice of a mountain stream, 
When ye feel the charm of a poet's dream — 
Then let it be ! 

Thus let my memory be with you, friends ! 

Thus ever think of me ! 
Kindly and gently, but as of one 
For whom 'tis well to be fled and gone — 
As of a bird from a chain unbound, 
As of a wanderer whose home is found — 
So let it be. 



WOMAN AND FAME. 

THOU hast a charmed cup, O Fame ! 
A draught that mantles high, 
And seems to lift this earthly frame 
Above mortality. 

M 



178 Woman and Fame. 

Away ! to me — a woman — bring 
Sweet waters from affection's spring ! 

Thou hast green laurel leaves, that twine 

Into so proud a wreath, 
For that resplendent gift of thine 

Heroes have smiled in death : 
Give me from some kind hand a flower, 
The record of one happy hour ! 

Thou hast a voice, whose thrilling tone 
Can bid each life-pulse beat, 

As when a trumpet's note hath blown, 
Calling the brave to meet : 

But mine, let mine — a woman's breast, 

By words of home-born love be bless'd. 

A hollow sound is in thy song, 

A mockery in thine eye, 
To the sick heart that doth but long 

For aid, for sympathy — 
For kindly looks to cheer it on, 
For tender accents that are gone. 

Fame ! Fame ! thou canst not be the stay 

Unto the drooping reed, 
The cool fresh fountain in the day 

Of the soul's feverish need : 
Where must the lone one turn or flee !- 
Not unto thee — oh ! not to thee ! 



i 



The Child's First Grief. 179 



THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF. 

OH ! call my brother back to me ! 
I cannot play alone ; 
The summer comes with flower and bee — 
Where is my brother gone ? 

1 ' The butterfly is glancing bright 
Across the sunbeam's track ; 

I care not now to chase its flight — 
Oh ! call my brother back ! 

II The flowers run wild — the flowers we sowed 
Around our garden tree ; 

Our vine is drooping with its load — 
Oh ! callhim back to me ! " 

" He would not hear thy voice, fair child ! 

He may not come to thee ; 
The face that once like spring-time smiled, 

On earth no more thou'lt see. 

" A rose's brief, bright life of joy, 

Such unto him was given : 
Go — thou must play alone, my boy ! 

Thy brother is in heaven." 

" And has he left his birds and flowers ; 

And must I call in vain ? 
And through the long, long summer hours, 

Will he not come again ? 



1 80 The Prayer for Life, 

" And by the brook and in the glade 
Are all our wanderings o'er ? 

Oh ! while my brother with me played, 
Would I had loved him more ! " 



THE PRAYER FOR LIFE. 



o 



SUNSHINE and fair earth ! 
Sweet is your kindly mirth ; 
Angel of death ! yet, yet awhile delay ! 
Too sad it is to part, 
Thus in my spring of heart, 
With all the light and laughter of the day. 

For me the falling leaf 

Touches no chord of grief, 
No dark void in the rose's bosom lies : 

Not one triumphal tone, 

One hue of hope is gone 
From song or bloom beneath the summer skies. 

Death, Death ! ere yet decay, 

Call me not hence away ! 
Over the golden hours no shade is thrown : 

The poesy that dwells 

Deep in green woods and dells 
Still to my spirit speaks of joy alone. 



The Prayer for Life. 1 8 1 

Yet not for this, O Death ! 

Not for the vernal breath 
Of winds that shake forth music from the trees : 

Not for the splendour given 

To night's dark, regal heaven, 
Spoiler! I ask thee not reprieve for these. 

But for the happy love 

Whose light, where'er I rove, 
Kindles all nature to a sudden smile, 

Shedding on branch and flower 

A rainbow-tinted shower 
Of richer life — spare, spare me yet awhile. 

Too soon, too fast thou'rt come ! 

Too beautiful is home — 
A home of gentle voices and kind eyes ! 

And I the loved of all, 

On whom fond blessings fall 
From every lip. Oh ! wilt thou rend such ties ? 

Sweet sisters ! weave a chain 

My spirit to detain : 
Hold me to earth with strong affection back ; 

Bind me with mighty love 

Unto the stream, the grove, 
Our daily paths— our life's familiar track. 

Stay with me ! gird me round ! 

Your voices bear a sound 
Of hope — a light comes with you and departs ; 

Hush my soul's boding swell, 

That murmurs of farewell. 
How can I leave this ring of kindest hearts ? 



1 82 The Welcome to Death. 

Death ! grave ! — and are there those 

That woo your dark repose 
Midst the rich beauty of the glowing earth ? 

Surely about them lies 

No world of loving eyes. 
Leave me, oh ! leave me unto home and hearth ! 



THE WELCOME TO DEATH. 

THOU art welcome, O thou warning voice ! 
My soul hath pined for thee ; 
Thou art welcome as sweet sounds from shore 

To wanderer on the sea. 
I hear thee in the rustling woods, 

In the sighing vernal airs ; 
Thou call'st me from the lonely earth 
With a deeper tone than theirs. 

The lonely earth ! Since kindred steps 

From its green paths are fled, 
A dimness and a hush have lain 

O'er all its beauty spread. 
The silence of th' unanswering soul 

Is on me and around ; 
My heart hath echoes but for thee, 

Thou still, small, warning sound ! 

Voice after voice hath died away, 

Once in my dwelling heard ; 
Sweet household name by name hath changed 

To qrief 's forbidden word ! 



The Burial of William the Conqueror. 1 83 

From dreams of night on each I call, 

Each of the far removed ; 
And waken to my own wild cry — 

" Where are ye, my beloved?" 

Ye left me ! and earth's flowers were dim 

With records of the past ; 
And stars poured down another light 

Than o'er my youth they cast. 
Birds will not sing as once they sang, 

When ye were at my side, 
And mournful tones are in the wind 

Which I heard not till ye died ! 

Thou art welcome, O thou summoner ! 

Why should the last remain ? 
What eye can reach my heart of hearts, 

Bearing in light again ? 
E'en could this be, too much of fear 

O'er love would now be thrown. — 
Away! away! from time, from change, 

Once more to meet my own ! 



THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE 
CONQUEROR, 

AT CAEN, IN NORMANDY — 1087. 

LOWLY upon his bier 
The royal conqueror lay \ 
Baron and chief stood near, 
Silent in war-array. 



1 84 The Burial of William the Conqueror. 

Down the long minster's aisle 
Crowds mutely gazing streamed ; 

Altar and tomb the while 

Through mists of incense gleamed. 

And, by the torches' blaze, 

The stately priest had said 
High words of power and praise 

To the glory of the dead. 

They lowered him, with the sound 

Of requiems, to repose ; 
When from the throngs around 

A solemn voice arose : — 

" Forbear ! forbear ! " it cried ; 

* ■ In the holiest name, forbear ! 
He hath conquered regions wide, 

But he shall not slumber there ! 

" By the violated hearth 

Which made way for yon proud shrine ; 
By the harvest which this earth 

Hath borne for me and mine ; 

" By the house e'en here o'erthrown, 
On my brethren's native spot ; 

Hence ! with his dark renown, 
Cumber our birthplace not ! 

6 ' Will my sire's unransomed field, 
O'er which your censers wave, 

To the buried spoiler yield 
Soft slumbers in the grave ! 



The Burial of William the Conqueror. 185 

' * The tree before him fell 
Which we cherished many a year ; 

But its deep root yet shall swell, 
And heave against his bier. 

" The land that I have tilled 

Hath yet its brooding breast 
With my home's white ashes filled, 

And it shall not give him rest ! 

" Each pillar's massy bed 
Hath been wet by weeping eyes — 

Away ! bestow your dead 

Where no wrong against him cries." 

Shame glowed on each dark face 
Of those proud and steel-girt men, 

And they bought with gold a place 
For their leader's dust e'en then. 

A little earth for him 

Whose banner flew so far ! 
And a peasant's tale could dim 

The name, a nation's star ! 

One deep voice thus arose 

From a heart which wrongs had riven : 
Oh ! who shall number those 

That were but heard in heaven ? 



1 86 The Wanderer and the Night-Flowers, 



THE WANDERER AND THE NIGHT- 
FLOWERS. 

a /^""*ALL back your odours, lovely flowers! 
v^ From the night-winds call them back ; 
And fold your leaves till the laughing hours 
Come forth in the sunbeam's track ! 

" The lark lies couched in her grassy nest, 

And the honey-bee is gone, 
And all bright things are away to rest — 

Why watch ye here alone ? 

" Is not your world a mournful one, 
When your sisters close their eyes, 

And your soft breath meets not a lingering tone 
Of song in the starry skies ? 

" Take ye no joy in the dayspring's birth 
When it kindles the sparks of dew ? 

And the thousand strains of the forest's mirth, 
Shall they gladden all but you ? 

" Shut your sweet bells till the fawn comes out 

On the sunny turf to play, 
And the woodland child with a fairy shout 

Goes dancing on its way ! " 

" Nay ! let our shadowy beauty bloom 

When the stars give quiet light, 
And let us offer our faint perfume 

On the silent shrine of night. 



The Home of Love. 187 

" Call it not wasted, the scent we lend 

To the breeze, when no step is nigh : 
Oh, thus for ever the earth should send 

Her grateful breath on high ! 

" And love us as emblems, night's dewy flowers, 

Of hopes unto sorrow given, 
That spring through the gloom of the darkest hours 

Looking alone to heaven ! " 



THE HOME OF LOVE. 

THOU mov'st in visions, Love ! Around thy way, 
E'en thro' this world's rough path and changeful day, 
For ever floats a gleam — 
Not from the realms of moonlight or the morn, 
But thine own soul's illumined chambers born — 
The colouring of a dream ! 

Love ! shall I read thy dream ? Oh ! is it not 
All of some sheltering wood-embosomed spot — - 

A bower for thee and thine ? 
Yes ! lone and lowly is that home ; yet there 
Something of heaven in the transparent air 

Makes every flower divine. 

Something that mellows and that glorifies, 
Breathes o'er it ever from the tender skies, 

As o'er some blessed isle ; 
E'en like the soft and spiritual glow 
Kindling rich woods whereon th' ethereal bow 

Sleeps lovingly awhile. 



1 8 8 The Home of Love. 

The very whispers of the wind have there 
A flute-like harmony, that seems to bear 

Greeting from some bright shore, 
Where none have said farewell ! — where no decay 
Lends the faint crimson to the dying day; 

Where the storm's might is o'er. 

And there thou dreamest of Elysian rest, 
In the deep sanctuary of one true breast 

Hidden from earthly ill : 
There wouldst thou watch the homeward step, whose sound 
Wakening all nature to sweet echoes round, 

Thine inmost soul can thrill. 

There by the hearth should many a glorious page, 
From mind to mind th' immortal heritage, 

For thee its treasures pour ; 
Or music's voice at vesper hours be heard, 
Or dearer interchange of playful word, 

Affection's household lore. 

And the rich unison of mingled prayer, 
The melody of hearts in heavenly air, 

Thence duly should arise ; 
Lifting th' eternal hope, th' adoring breath, 
Of spirits, not to be disjoined by death, 

Up to the starry skies. 

There, dost thou well believe, no storm should come 
To mar the stillness of that angel home ; 

There should thy slumbers be 
Weighed down with honey-dew, serenely bless'd, 
Like theirs who first in Eden's grove took rest 

Under some balmy tree. 



The Home of Love. 189 

Love ! Love ! thou passionate in joy and woe ! 
And canst thou hope for cloudless peace below — 

Here, where bright things must die ? 
O thou ! that, wildly worshipping, dost shed 
On the frail altar of a mortal head 

Gifts of infinity ! 

Thou must be still a trembler, fearful Love ! 
Danger seems gathering from beneath, above, 

Still round thy precious things ; 
Thy stately pine-tree, or thy gracious rose, 
In their sweet shade can yield thee no repose, 

Here, where the blight hath wings. 

And as a flower, with some fine sense imbued, 
To shrink before the wind's vicissitude, 

So in thy prescient breast 
Are lyre-strings quivering with prophetic thrill 
To the low footstep of each coming ill : 

Oh ! canst thou dream of rest ? 

Bear up thy dream ! thou mighty and thou weak ! 
Heart, strong as death, yet as a reed to break — 

As a flame, tempest- swayed ! 
He that sits calm on high is yet the source 
Whence thy soul's current hath its troubled course, 

He that great deep hath made ! 

Will He not pity ? — He whose searching eye 
Reads all the secrets of thine agony ? — 

Oh ! pray to be forgiven 
Thy fond idolatry, thy blind excess, 
And seek with Him that bower of blessedness. 

Love ! thy sole home is heaven ! 



190 The Flower of the Desert, 



THE FLOWER OF THE DESERT. 

" Who does not recollect the exultation of Valiant over a flower in 
the torrid wastes of Africa ? The affecting mention of the influence 
of a flower upon the mind, by Mungo Park, in a time of sufferi?ig and 
despondency, in the heart of the same savage country, is familiar to 
every one." — Howitt's ' Book of the Seasons.' 

WHY art thou thus in thy beauty cast, 
O lonely, loneliest flower ! 
Where the sound of song hath never passed 
From human hearth or bower ? 

I pity thee, for thy heart of love, 

For that glowing heart that fain 
Would breathe out joy with each wind to rove — 

In vain, lost thing ! in vain ! 

I pity thee, for thy wasted bloom, 

For thy glory's fleeting hour, 
For the desert place, thy living tomb — 

O lonely, loneliest flower ! 

I said — but a low voice made reply, 

" Lament not for the flower! 
Though its blossoms all unmarked must die, 

They have had a glorious dower. 

" Though it bloom afar from the minstrel's way, 

And the paths where lovers tread ; 
Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day, 

By its odours have been shed. 



The Flower of the Desert. 191 

" Yes! dews more sweet than ever fell 

O'er island of the blest, 
Were shaken forth, from its purple bell, 

On a suffering human breast. 

* ' A wanderer came, as a stricken deer, 

O'er the waste of burning sand, 
He bore the wound of an Arab spear, 

He fled from a ruthless band. 

" And dreams of home in a troubled tide 

Swept o'er his darkening eye, 
As he lay down by the fountain-side, 

In his mute despair to die. 

" But his glance was caught by the desert's flower, 

The precious boon of heaven ; 
And sudden hope, like a vernal shower, 

To his fainting heart was given. 

* ' For the bright flower spoke of One above — 

Of the presence felt to brood, 
With a spirit of pervading love, 

O'er the wildest solitude. 

" Oh ! the seed was thrown those wastes among 

In a bless'd and gracious hour, 
For the lorn one rose in heart made strong 

By the lonely, loneliest flower!" 



192 The Muffled Drum. 



THE MUFFLED DRUM. 

THE muffled dram was heard 
In the Pyrenees by night, 
With a dull, deep rolling sound, 
Which told the hamlets round 
Of a soldier's burial-rite. 

But it told them not how dear, 

In a home beyond the main, 
Was the warrior-youth laid low that hour 

By a mountain-stream of Spain. 

The oaks of England waved 
O'er the slumbers of his race, 

But a pine of the Ronceval made moan 
Above his last, lone place ; 

When the muffled drum was heard 

In the Pyrenees by night, 
With a dull, deep rolling sound, 
Which called strange echoes round 

To the soldier's burial-rite. 

Brief was the sorrowing there, 
By the stream from battle red, 

And tossing on its waves the plumes 
Of many a stately head : 

But a mother — soon to die, 

And a sister — long to weep, 
Even then were breathing prayers for him 

In that home beyond the deep ; 



If thou hast Crushed a Flower. 193 

While the muffled drum was heard 

In the Pyrenees by night, 
With a dull, deep rolling sound, 
And the dark pines mourned round, 

O'er the soldier's burial-rite. 



IF THOU HAST CRUSHED A FLOWER. 

" Oh, cast thou not 
Affection from thee I In this bitter world 
Hold to thy heart that only treasure fast ; 
Watch — guard it — sziffer not a breath to dim 
The bright gem's purity ! " 

IF thou hast crushed a flower, 
The root may not be blighted ; 
If thou hast quenched a lamp, 

Once more it may be lighted : 
But on thy harp, or on thy lute, 

The string which thou hast broken 
Shall never in sweet sound again 
Give to thy touch a token ! 

If thou hast loosed a bird 

Whose voice of song could cheer thee, 
Still, still he may be won 

From the skies to warble near thee : 
But if upon the troubled sea 

Thou hast thrown a gem unheeded, 
Hope not that wind or wave will bring 

The treasure back when needed. 



194 Dirge at Sea. 

If thou hast bruised a vine, 

The summer's breath is healing, 
And its clusters yet may glow, 

Through the leaves their bloom revealing : 
But if thou hast a cup o'erthrown 

With a bright draught filled — oh ! never 
Shall earth give back that lavished wealth 

To cool thy parched lip's fever ! 

The heart is like that cup, 

If thou waste the love it bore thee ; 
And like that jewel gone, 

Which the deep will not restore thee ; 
And like that string of harp or lute 

Whence the sweet sound is scattered, — 
Gently, oh ! gently touch the chords, 

So soon for ever shattered ! 






DIRGE AT SEA. 

SLEEP ! — we give thee to the wave, 
Red with life-blood from the brave. 
Thou shalt find a noble grave. 
Fare thee well ! 

Sleep ! thy billowy field is won : 
Proudly may the funeral-gun, 
Midst the hush at set of sun, 
Boom thy knell ! 



O ye Voices gone! 195 

Lonely, lonely is thy bed, 
Never there may flower be shed, 
Marble reared, or brother's head 
Bowed to weep. 



Yet thy record on the sea, 
Borne through battle high and free, 
Long the red-cross flag shall be. . 
Sleep ! oh, sleep ! 



O YE VOICES GONE! 

OYE voices gone ! 
- Sounds of other years ! 
Hush that haunting tone, 

Melt me not to tears ! 
All around forget, 

All who loved you well ; 
Yet, sweet voices ! yet 
O'er my soul ye swell. 

With the winds of spring, 

With the breath of flowers, 
Floating back, ye bring 

Thoughts of vanished hours. 
Hence your music take, 

O ye voices gone ! 
This lonely heart ye make 

But more deeply lone. 



ig6 The Meeting of the Ships. 



THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 



We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a few words 
and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a few short mo- 
ments : a7id then days, months, years intervene, and we see and know 
nothing of each other." — Washington Irving. 



TWO barks met on the deep mid-sea, 
When calms had stilled the tide ; 
A few bright days of summer glee 
There found them side by side. 

And voices of the fair and brave 
Rose mingling thence in mirth ; 

And sweetly floated o'er the wave 
The melodies of earth. 

Moonlight on that lone Indian main 

Cloudless and lovely slept ; 
While dancing step and festive strain 

Each deck in triumph swept. 

And hands were linked, and answering eyes 

With kindly meaning shone ; 
Oh ! brief and passing sympathies, 

Like leaves together blown ! 

A little while such joy was cast 

Over the deep's repose, 
Till the loud singing winds at last 

Like trumpet- music rose. 






Despondency and Aspiration. 197 

And proudly, freely on their way 

The parting vessels bore ; 
In calm or storm, by rock or bay 

To meet — oh, never more ! 

Never to blend in victory's cheer, 

To aid in hours of woe : 
And thus bright spirits mingle here, 

Such ties are formed below ! 



DESPONDENCY AND ASPIRATION. 



" Par correr miglior acqua aha le vele, 
Omai la navicella delmio Intelletto." — Dante. 



MY soul was mantled with dark shadows, born 
Of lonely Fear, disquieted in vain ; 
Its phantoms hung around the star of morn, 

A cloud-like, weeping train : 
Through the long day they dimmed the autumn gold 
On all the glistening leaves, and wildly rolled, 
When the last farewell flush of light was glowing 

Across the sunset sky, 
O'er its rich isles of vaporous glory throwing 
One melancholy dye. 

And when the solemn night 
Came rushing with her might 
Of stormy oracles from caves unknown, 



198 Despondency and Aspiration. 

Then with each fitful blast 

Prophetic murmurs passed, 
Wakening or answering some deep Sybil-tone 
Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise 
With every gusty wail that o'er the wind-harp flies. 

" Fold, fold thy wings," they cried, " and strive no more- 
Faint spirit ! strive no more : for thee too strong 

Are outward ill and wrong, 
And inward wasting fires ! Thou canst not soar 

Free on a starry way, 

Beyond their blighting sway, 
At heaven's high gate serenely to adore ! 
How shouldst thou hope earth's fetters to unbind ? 
O passionate, yet weak ! O trembler to the wind ! 

" Never shall aught but broken music flow 
From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe — 
Such homeless notes as through the forest sigh, 
From the reeds' hollow shaken, 
When sudden breezes waken 
Their vague, wild symphony. 
No power is theirs, and no abiding-place 
In human hearts ; their sweetness leaves no trace — 
Born only so to die ! 

* ' Never shall aught but perfume, faint and vain, 
On the fleet pinion of the changeful hour, 
From thy bruised life again 
A moment's essence breathe ; 
Thy life, whose trampled flower 
Into the blessed wreath 
Of household-charities no longer bound, 
Lies pale and withering on the barren ground. 



Despondency and Aspiration. 199 

"So fade, fade on ! Thy gift of love shall cling, 
A coiling sadness round thy heart and brain — 
A silent, fruitless, yet undying thing, 

All sensitive to pain ! 
And still the shadow of vain dreams shall fall 
O'er thy mind's world, a daily darkening pall. 
Fold, then, thy wounded wing, and sink subdued 
In cold and unrepining quietude!" 



Then my soul yielded : spells of numbing breath 
Crept o'er it heavy with a dew of death — 
Its powers, like leaves before the night- rain, closing 
And, as by conflict of wild sea-waves, tossed 
On the chill bosom of some desert coast, 
Mutely and hopelessly I lay reposing. 



When silently it seemed 

As if a soft mist gleamed 
Before my passive sight, and, slowly curling, 

To many a shape and hue 

Of visioned beauty grew, 
Like a wrought banner, fold by fold unfurling. 
Oh ! the rich scenes that o'er mine inward eye 

Unrolling then swept by 
With dreamy motion ! Silvery seas were there, 
Lit by large dazzling stars, and arched by skies 
Of southern midnight's most transparent dyes ; 
And gemmed with many an island, wildly fair, 
Which floated past me into orient day, 
Still gathering lustre on th' illumined way, 
Till its high groves of wondrous flowering-trees 

Coloured the silvery seas. 



200 Despondency and A spiral 'tot:. 

And then a glorious mountain-chain uprose, 

Height above spiry height ! 
A soaring solitude of woods and snows, 

All steeped in golden light ! 
While as it passed, those regal peaks unveiling, 

I heard, methought, a waving of dread wings, 
And mighty sounds, as if the vision hailing, 

From lyres that quivered through ten thousand strings — 
Or as if waters, forth to music leaping 

From many a cave, the Alpine Echo's hall, 
On their bold way victoriously were sweeping, 

Linked in majestic anthems ! — while through all 
That billowy swell and fall, 
Voices, like ringing crystal, filled the air 

With inarticulate melody, that stirred 

My being's core ; then, moulding into word 
Their piercing sweetness, bade me rise, and bear 

In that great choral strain my trembling part, 
Of tones by love and faith struck from a human heart. 



Return no more, vain bodings of the night ! 

A happier oracle within my soul 
Hath swelled to power ; a clear, unwavering light 
Mounts through the battling clouds that round me 
roll; 
And to a new control 
Nature's full harp gives forth rejoicing tones, 

Wherein my glad sense owns 
Th' accordant rush of elemental sound 
To one consummate harmony profound — 
One grand Creation- Hymn, 
Whose notes the seraphim 
Lift to the glorious height of music winged and crowned. 



Despondency and Aspiration, 2 

Shall not those notes find echoes in my lyre, 
Faithful though faint ? Shall not my spirit's fire, 
If slowly, yet unswervingly, ascend 
Now to its fount and end ? 

Shall not my earthly love, all purified, 
Shine forth a heavenward guide, 

An angel of bright power — and strongly bear 

My being upward into holier air, 

Where fiery passion-clouds have no abode, 
And the sky's temple-arch o'erflows with God ? 

The radiant hope new-bom 

Expands like rising morn 
In my life's life : and as a ripening rose 
The crimson shadow of its glory throws 
More vivid, hour by hour, on some pure stream ; 

So from that hope are spreading 

Rich hues, o'er nature shedding 
Each day a clearer, spiritual gleam. 

Let not those rays fade from me ! — once enjoyed, 

Father of Spirits ! let them not depart — 
Leaving the chilled earth, without form and void, 

Darkened by mine own heart ! 
Lift, aid, sustain me ! Thou, by whom alone 

All lovely gifts and pure 

In the soul's grasp endure ; 
Thou, to the steps of whose eternal throne 
All knowledge flows — a sea for evermore 
Breaking its crested waves on that sole shore — 
Oh, consecrate my life ! that I may sing 
Of thee with joy that hath a living spring, 
In a full heart of music ! Let my lays 
Through the resounding mountains waft thy praise, 



202 Despondency and Aspiration. 

And with that theme the wood's green cloisters fill, 
And make their quivering, leafy dimness thrill 
To the rich breeze of song ! Oh ! let me wake 

The deep religion, which hath dwelt from yore 
Silently brooding by lone cliff and lake, 

And wildest river-shore ! 
And let me summon all the voices dwelling 
Where eagles build, and caverned rills are welling, 
And where the cataract's organ -peal is swelling, 

In that one spirit gathered to adore ! 

Forgive, O Father ! if presumptuous thought 

Too daringly in aspiration rise ! 
Let not thy child all vainly have been taught 

By weakness, and by wanderings, and by sighs 
Of sad confession ! Lowly be my heart, 

And on its penitential altar spread 
The offerings worthless, till thy grace impart 

The fire from heaven, whose touch alone can shed 
Life, radiance, virtue ! — let that vital spark 
Pierce my whole being, wiidered else and dark ! 

Thine are all holy things — oh, make me thine ! 
So shall I, too, be pure — a living shrine 
Unto that Spirit which goes forth from thee, 

Strong and divinely free, 
Bearing thy gifts of wisdom on its flight, 
And brooding o'er them with a dove-like wing, 
Till thought, word, song, to thee in worship spring, 
Immortally endowed for liberty and light. 






Communings with Thought. 203 



COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT. 



' Coicld we but keep our spirits to that height, 
We might be happy ; bztt this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal. " — Byron. 



RETURN, my thoughts — come home ! 
Ye wild and winged ! what do ye o'er the deep ? 
And wherefore thus th' abyss of time o'ersweep, 
As birds the ocean-foam ? 

Swifter than shooting-star, 
Swifter than lances of the northern-light, 
Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, 

Hath been your course afar ! 

Through the bright battle- clime, 
Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams, 
And reeds are whispering of heroic themes, 

By temples of old time : 

Through the north's ancient halls, 
Where banners thrilled of yore — where harp-strings rang ; 
But grass waves now o'er those that fought and sang, 

Hearth-light hath left their walls ! 

Through forests old and dim, 
Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to brood ; 
And sometimes on the haunted solitude 

Rises the pilgrim's hymn : 



204 Communings with Thought. 

Or where some fountain lies, 
With lotus-cups through orient spice- woods gleaming ! 
There have ye been, ye wanderers ! idly dreaming 

Of man's lost paradise ! 

Return, my thoughts — return ! 
Cares wait your presence in life's daily track, 
And voices, not of music, call you back — 

Harsh voices, cold and stern ! 

Oh, no ! return ye not ! 
Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be ! 
Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free, 

O'er many a haunted spot. 

Go ! seek the martyr's grave, 
Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast ; 
Or, through the ruined cities of the past, 

Follow the wise and brave ! 



Go ! visit cell and shrine, 
Where woman hath endured ! — thro' wrong, thro' scorn, 
Uncheered by fame, yet silently upborne 

By promptings more divine ! 

Go, shoot the gulf of death ! 
Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind, 
Where the heart's boundless love its rest may find, 

Where the storm sends no breath ! 

Higher, and yet more high ! 
Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would lay 
On your victorious wings — mount, mount ! Your way 

Ts through eternity ! 






Mother's Litany by the Sickbed of a Child. 205 



MOTHER'S LITANY BY THE SICKBED 
OF A CHILD. 

SAVIOUR, that of woman born, 
Mother-sorrow didst not scorn — 
Thou, with whose last anguish strove 
One dear thought of earthly love — 
Hear, and aid ! 

Low he lies, my precious child, 
With his spirit wandering wild 
From its gladsome tasks and play, 
And its bright thoughts far away — 
Saviour, aid ! 

Pain sits heavy on his brow, 
E'en though slumber seal it now; 
Round his lip is quivering strife, 
In his hand unquiet life — 
Aid! oh, aid! 

Saviour ! loose the burning chain 
From his fevered heart and brain ; 
Give, oh ! give his young soul back 
Into its own cloudless track ! 
Hear, and aid ! 

Thou that saidst, " Awake ! arise ! " 
E'en when death had quenched the eyes — 
In this hour of grief's deep sighing, 
When o'erwearied hope is dying, 
Hear, and aid ! 



206 Night Hymn at Sea. 

Yet, oh ! make him thine, all thine, 
Saviour ! whether Death's or mine ! 
Yet, oh ! pour on human love, 
Strength, trust, patience, from above ! 
Hear, and aid ! 



NIGHT HYMN AT SEA. 

NIGHT sinks on the wave, 
Hollow gusts are sighing, 
Sea-birds to their cave 

Through the gloom are flying. 
Oh ! should storms come sweeping, 
Thou, in heaven unsleeping, 
O'er thy children vigil keeping, 
Hear, hear, and save ! 

Stars look o'er the sea, 

Few, and sad, and shrouded ; 

Faith our light must be, 
When all else is clouded. 

Thou, whose voice came thrilling, 

Wind and billow stilling, 

Speak once more ! our prayer fulfilling — 
Power dwells with Thee ! 






The English Boy. 207 



THE ENGLISH BOY. 

" Go, call thy softs; instruct them what a debt 
They owe their ancestors ; and make them swear 
To pay it, by transmitting down entire 
Those sacred rights to which themselves were born. " 

— Akenside. 

LOOK from the ancient mountains down, 
My noble English boy ! 
Thy country's fields around thee gleam 
In sunlight and in joy. 

Ages have rolled since foeman's march 

Passed o'er that old, firm sod ; 
For well the land hath fealty held 

To freedom and to God ! 

Gaze proudly on, my English boy ! 

And let thy kindling mind 
Drink in the spirit of high thought 

From every chainless wind ! 

There, in the shadow of old Time, 

The halls beneath thee lie 
Which poured forth to the fields of yore 

Our England's chivalry. 

How bravely and how solemnly 

They stand, midst oak and yew ! 
Whence Cressy's yeomen haply framed 

The bow, in battle true. 



208 The English Boy, 

And round their walls the good swords hang 

Whose faith knew no alloy, 
And shields of knighthood, pure from stain : 

Gaze on, my English boy ! 

Gaze where the hamlet's ivied church 

Gleams by the antique elm, 
Or where the minster lifts the cross 

High through the air's blue realm. 

Martyrs have showered their free heart's blood 
That England's prayer might rise, 

From those grey fanes of thoughtful years, 
Unfettered, to the skies. 

Along their aisles, beneath their trees, 
This earth's most glorious dust, 

Once fired with valour, wisdom, song, 
Is laid in holy trust. 

Gaze on — gaze farther, farther yet — 

My gallant English boy ! 
Yon blue sea bears thy country's flag, 

The billows' pride and joy ! 

Those waves in many a fight have closed 

Above her faithful dead ; 
That red-cross flag victoriously 

Hath floated o'er their bed. 

They perished — this green turf to keep 

By hostile tread unstained, 
These knightly halls inviolate, 

Those churches unprofaned. 



Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers. 209 

And high and clear their memory's light 

Along our shore is set, 
And many an answering beacon-fire 

Shall there be kindled yet ! 

Lift up thy heart, my English boy ! 

And pray, like them to stand, 
Should God so summon thee, to guard 

The altars of the land. 






HYMN OF THE VAUDOIS MOUNTAINEERS 
IN TIMES OF PERSECUTION. 

" Thanks be to 'God for the mountains ! " 

Howitt's 'Book of the Seasons.' 

FOR the strength of the hills we bless thee, 
Our God, our fathers' God ! 
Thou hast made thy children mighty, 
By the touch of the mountain-sod. 
Thou hast fixed our ark of refuge 

Where the spoiler's foot ne'er trod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 
Our God, our fathers' God ! 

We are watchers of a beacon 

Whose light must never die ; 
We are guardians of an altar 

Midst the silence of the sky : 
o 



2 1 o Hymn of the Vandois Mountaineers. 

The rocks yield founts of courage, 
Struck forth as by the rod ; 

For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 
Our God, our fathers' God. 

For the dark resounding caverns, 

Where thy still, small voice is heard ; 
For the strong pines of the forests, 

That by thy breath are stirred ; 
For the storms, on whose free pinions 

Thy spirit walks abroad ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

The royal eagle darteth 

On his quarry from the heights, 
And the stag that knows no master 

Seeks there his wild delights ; 
But we, for thy communion, 

Have sought the mountain-sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

The banner of the chieftain 

Far, far below us waves ; 
The war-horse of the spearman 

Cannot reach our lofty caves : 
Thy dark clouds wrap the threshold 

Of freedom's last abode ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 

For the shadow of thy presence, 

Round our camp of rock outspread ; 



A Penitents Return. 211 

For the stern denies of battle, 

Bearing record of our dead ; 
For the snows and for the torrents, 

For the free heart's burial-sod ; 
For the strength of the hills we bless thee, 

Our God, our fathers' God ! 



A PENITENT'S RETURN. 

" Can guilt or misery ever enter here ? 
Ah, no I the spirit of domestic peace, 
Though calm and gentle as the brooding dove, 
And ever mtirmuring forth a quiet song, 
Guards, powerful as the sword of cherubim, 
The hallowed porch. She hath a heavenly smile, 
That sinks i?ito the sullen soul of Vice, 
And wins him o'er to virtue." — Wilson. 

MY father's house once more, 
In its own moonlight beauty ! Yet around, 
Something, amidst the dewy calm profound, 
Broods, never marked before ! 

Is it the brooding night ? 
Is it the shivery creeping on the air, 
That makes the home, so tranquil and so fair, 

O'erwhelming to my sight ? 

All solemnised it seems, 
And stilled, and darkened, in each time-worn hue, 
Since the rich, clustering roses met my view, 

As now, by starry gleams. 



212 A Penitent's Return, 

And this high elm, where last 
I stood and lingered — where my sisters made 
Our mother's bower — I deemed not that it cast 

So far and dark a shade ! 

How spirit-like a tone 
Sighs through yon tree ! My father's place was there 
At evening hours, while soft winds waved his hair ! 

Now those grey locks are gone ! 

My soul grows faint with fear ! 
Even as if angel-steps had marked the sod. 
I tremble where I move — the voice of God 

Is in the foliage here ! 

Is it indeed the night 
That makes my home so awful ? Faithless-hearted ! 
'Tis that from thine own bosom hath departed 

The inborn gladdening light ! 

No outward thing is changed ; 
Only the joy of purity is fled, 
And, long from nature's melodies estranged, 

Thou hear'st their tones with dread. 

Therefore the calm abode, 
By thy dark spirit is o'erhung with shade ; 
And therefore, in the leaves, the voice of God 

Makes thy sick heart afraid ! 

The night-flowers round that door 
Still breathe pure fragrance on th' untainted air ; 
Thou, thou alone art worthy now no more 

To pass, and rest thee there. 



Let 7is Depart ! 213 

And must I turn away ? — 
Hark, hark ! — it is my mother's voice I hear — 
Sadder than once it seemed — yet soft and clear; — 

Doth she not seem to pray ? 

My name ! — I caught the sound ! 
Oh ! blessed tone of love — the deep, the mild ! 
Mother ! my mother ! now receive thy child : 

Take back the lost and found ! 



LET US DEPART! 

[It is mentioned by Josephus, that, a short time previous to the destruc- 
tion of Jerusalem by the Romans, the priests, going by night into the 
inner court of the Temple to perform their sacred ministrations at the 
feast of Pentecost, felt a quaking, and heard a rushing noise, and after 
that, a sound as of a great multitude saying, " Let us depart hence ! "] 

NIGHT hung on Salem's towers, 
And a brooding hush profound 
Lay where the Roman eagle shone 
High o'er the tents around — 

The tents that rose by thousands, 
In the moonlight glimmering pale ; 

Like white waves of a frozen sea 
Filling an Alpine vale. 

And the Temple's massy shadow 

Fell broad, and dark, and still, 
In peace — as if the Holy One 

Yet watched his chosen hill. 



2i4 Let us Depart ! 

But a fearful sound was heard 

In that old fane's deepest heart, 
As if mighty wings rushed by, 
And a dread voice raised the cry, 
"Let us depart! " 

Within the fated city 

E'en then fierce discord raved, 

Though o'er night's heaven the comet-sword 
Its vengeful token waved. 

There were shouts of kindred warfare 
Through the dark streets ringing high, 

Though every sign was full which told 
Of the bloody vintage nigh ; 

Though the wild red spears and arrows 

Of many a meteor host 
Went flashing o'er the holy stars, 

In the sky now seen, now lost. 

And that fearful sound was heard 
In the Temple's deepest heart, 
As if mighty wings rushed by, 
And a voice cried mournfully, 
" Let us depart!" 

But within the fated city 

There was revelry that night — 

The wine-cup and the timbrel note, 
And the blaze of banquet-light. 

The footsteps of the dancer 

Went bounding through the hall, 

And the music of the dulcimer 
Summoned to festival : 



The Prayer in the Wilderness. 215 

While the clash of brother- weapons 

Made lightning in the air, 
And the dying at the palace gates 

Lay down in their despair ; 

And that fearful sound was heard 
At the Temple's thrilling heart, 
As if mighty wings rushed by, 
And a dread voice raised the cry, 
" Let us depart 7" 



THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS. 

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGGIO'S. 

IN the deep wilderness unseen she prayed, 
The daughter of Jerusalem; alone 
With all the still, small whispers of the night, 
And with the searching glances of the stars, 
And with her God, alone : she lifted up 
Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her head, 
The dark leaves thrilled with prayer — the tearful prayer 
Of woman's quenchless, yet repentant love. 

Father of Spirits, hear ! 
Look on the inmost heart to thee revealed, 
Look on the fountain of the burning tear, 
Before thy sight in solitude unsealed ! 



2 1 6 The Prayer in the Wilderness. 

Hear, Father ! hear, and aid ! 
If I have loved too well, if I have shed, 
In my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head, 
Gifts on thy shrine, my God ! more fitly laid ; 

If I have sought to live 
But in o ne light, and made a human eye 
The lonely star of mine idolatry, 
Thou that art Love ! oh, pity and forgive ! 

Chastened and schooled at last, 
No more, no more my struggling spirit burns, 
But, fixed on thee, from that wild worship turns — 
What have I said ? — the deep dream is not past ! 

Yet hear ! — if still I love, 
Oh ! still too fondly — if, for ever seen, 
An earthly image comes my heart between 
And thy calm glory, Father! throned above; 

If still a voice is near 
(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control), 
An earthly voice disquieting my soul 
With its deep music, too intensely dear ; 

Father ! draw to thee 

My lost affections back ! — the dreaming eyes 
Clear from their mist — sustain the heart that dies, 
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free ! 

1 must love on, O God ! 

This bosom must love on ! — but let thy breath 
Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death, 
Bearing it up to heaven — love's own abode ! 



The Two Monuments. 217 

Ages and ages past, the wilderness, 
With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night, 
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds, 
That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers. 
How many such hath woman's bursting heart 
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed, 
Like the dim night-flower's odour, up to God ! 



THE TWO MONUMENTS. 



' Oh ! bless' d are they who live and die like ' him] 
Loved with such love, and with such sorrozv mourned I ' 

— Wordsworth. 



BANNERS hung drooping from on high 
In a dim cathedral's nave, 
Making a gorgeous canopy 
O'er a noble, noble grave ! 

And a marble warrior's form beneath, 

With helm and crest arrayed, 
As on his battle-bed of death, 

Lay in their crimson shade. 

Triumph yet lingered in his eye, 

Ere by the dark night sealed; 
And his head was pillowed haughtily 

On standard and on shield. 



The Two Monuments. 

And shadowing that proud trophy-pile 

With the glory of his wing, 
An eagle sat — yet seemed the while 

Panting through heaven to spring. 

He sat upon a shivered lance, 
There by the sculptor bound ; 

But in the light of his lifted glance 
Was that which scorned the ground. 

And a burning flood of gem-like hues 
From a storied window poured, 

There fell, there centred, to suffuse 
The conqueror and his sword. 

A flood of hues — but one rich dye 

O'er all supremely spread, 
With a purple robe of royalty 

Mantling the mighty dead. 

Meet was that robe for him whose name 

Was a trumpet-note in war, 
His pathway still the march of fame, 

His eye the battle-star. 

But faintly, tenderly was thrown, 
From the coloured light, one ray, 

Where a low and pale memorial-stone 
By the couch of glory lay. 

Few were the fond words chiselled there, 

Mourning for parted worth ; 
But the very heart of love and prayer 

Had iriven their sweetness forth. 



The Two Monuments. 219 

They spoke of one whose life had been 
. As a hidden streamlet's course, 
Bearing on health and joy unseen 
From its clear mountain-source : 

Whose young, pure memory, lying deep 

Midst rock, and wood, and hill, 
Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep, 

A soft light, meek and still : 

Whose gentle voice, too early called 

Unto Music's land away, 
Had won for God the earth's, enthralled 

By words of silvery sway. 

These were his victories — yet, enrolled 

In no high song of fame, 
The pastor of the mountain-fold 

Left but to heaven his name. 

To heaven, and to the peasant's hearth, 

A blessed household-sound ; 
And finding lowly love on earth, 

Enough, enough, he found ! 

Bright and more bright before me gleamed 

That sainted image still, 
Till one sweet moonlight memory seemed 

The regal fane to fill. 

Oh ! how my silent spirit turned 

From those proud trophies nigh ! 
How my full heart within me burned 

Like Him to live and die ! 



2 2o The Huguenofs Farewell. 



THE HUGUENOT'S FAREWELL. 

I STAND upon the threshold stone 
Of mine ancestral hall ; 
I hear my native river moan ; 

I see the night o'er my old forests fall. 

I look round on the darkening vale 

That saw my childhood's plays ; 
The low wind in its rising wail 

Hath a strange tone, a sound of other days. 

But I must rule my swelling breast : 

A sign is in the sky ! 
Bright o'er yon grey rock's eagle-nest 

Shines forth a warning star — it bids me fly. 

My father's sword is in my hand, 

His deep voice haunts mine ear ; 
He tells me of the noble band 

Whose lives have left a brooding glory here. 

He bids their offspring guard from stain 

Their pure and lofty faith ; 
And yield up all things, to maintain 

The cause for which they girt themselves to death. 

And I obey. I leave their towers 

Unto the stranger's tread, 
Unto the creeping grass and flowers, 

Unto the fading pictures of the dead. 



The Huguenots Farewell. 221 

I leave their shields to slow decay, 

Their banners to the dust : 
I go, and only bear away 

Their old majestic name — a solemn trust ! 

I go up to the ancient hills, 

Where chains may never be, 
Where leap in joy the torrent-rills, 

Where man may worship God, alone and free. 

There shall an altar and a camp 

Impregnably arise ; 
There shall be lit a quenchless lamp, 

To shine, unwavering, through the open skies. 

And song shall midst the rocks be heard, 

And fearless prayer ascend ; 
While, thrilling to God's holy word, 

The mountain-pines in adoration bend. 

And there the burning heart no more 

Its deep thought shall suppress, 
But the long-buried truth shall pour 

Free currents thence, amidst the wilderness. 

Then fare thee well, my mother's bower ! 

Farewell my father's hearth ! — 
Perish my home ! where lawless power 

Hath rent the tie of love to native earth. 

Perish ! let deathlike silence fall 

Upon the lone abode ; 
Spread fast, dark ivy ! spread thy pall ; — 

I go up to the mountains with my God. 



222 The Return. 



THE RETURN. 

" T T AST thou come with the heart of thy childhood 
11 back ; 

The free, the pure, the kind ? " 
So murmured the trees in my homeward track, 
As they played to the mountain wind. 

" Hath thy soul been true to its early love?" 

Whispered my native streams ; 
' ' Hath the spirit nursed amidst hill and grove 

Still revered its first high dreams ? " 

' ' Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer 

Of the child in his parent-halls?" 
Thus breathed a voice on the thrilling air, 

From the old ancestral walls. 

" Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, 

Whose place of rest is nigh ? 
With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, 

With the mother's trusting eye ? " 

Then my tears gushed forth in sudden rain, 

As I answered — " O ye shades ! 
I bring not my childhood's heart again 

To the freedom of your glades. 

" I have turned from my first pure love aside, 

O bright and happy streams! 
Light after light, in my soul have died 

The dayspring's glorious dreams. 



The Message to the Dead. 223 

" And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath passed — 

The prayer at my mother's knee ; 
Darkened and troubled I come at last, 

Home of my boyish glee ! 

' ' But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, 

To soften and atone ; 
And oh ! ye scenes of those blessed years, 

They shall make me again your own." 



THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. 

THOU'RT passing hence, my brother! 
O my earliest friend, farewell ! 
Thou'rt leaving me, without thy voice, 

In a lonely home to dwell ; 
And from the hills, and from the hearth, 

And from the household tree, 
With thee departs the lingering mirth, 
The brightness goes with thee. 

But thou, my friend, my brother ! 

Thou'rt speeding to the shore 
Where the dirgelike tone of parting words 

Shall smite the soul no more ! 
And thou wilt see our holy dead, 

The lost on earth and main : 
Into the sheaf of kindred hearts 

Thou wilt be bound again ! 



224 The Message to the Dead. 

Tell, then, our friend of boyhood 

That yet his name is heard 
On the blue mountains, whence his youth 

Passed like a swift, bright bird. 
The light of his exulting brow, 

The vision of his glee, 
Are on me still — oh ! still I trust 

That smile again to see. 

And tell our fair young sister, 

The rose cut down in spring, 
That yet my gushing soul is filled 

With lays she loved to sing. 
Her soft deep eyes look through my dreams, 

Tender and sadly sweet ; — 
Tell her my heart within me burns 

Once more that gaze to meet. 

And tell our white-haired father, 

That in the paths he trod, 
The child he loved, the last on earth, 

Yet walks and worships God. 
Say, that his last fond blessing yet 

Rests on my soul like dew, 
And by its hallowing might I trust 

Once more his face to view. 

And tell our gentle mother, 

That on her grave I pour 
The sorrows of my spirit forth, 

As on her breast of yore. 
Happy thou art that soon, how soon, 

Our good and bright will see ! — 
O brother, brother ! may I dwell, 

Ere long, with them and thee ! 



The Land of Dreams. 225 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 

" And dreams, in their development, have breath, 
A nd tears and tortttres, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They make ?is what we were not — what they will, 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by." — Byron. 

O SPIRIT-LAND ! thou land of dreams ! 
A world thou art of mysterious gleams, 
• Of startling voices, and sounds at strife — 
A world of the dead in the hues of life. 

Like a wizard's magic glass thou art, 
When the wavy shadows float by, and part : 
Visions of aspects, now loved, now strange, 
Glimmering and mingling in ceaseless change. 

Thou art like a city of the past, 
With its gorgeous halls into fragments cast, 
Amidst whose ruins there glide and play 
Familiar forms of the world's to-day. 

Thou art like the depths where the seas have birth, 
Rich with the wealth that is lost from earth, — 
All the sere flowers of our days gone by, 
And the buried gems in thy bosom lie. 

Yes ! thou art like those dim sea- caves, 
A realm of treasures, a realm of graves ! 
And the shapes through thy mysteries that come and go, 
Are of beauty arid terror, of power and woe. 
p 



226 The Land of Dreams. 

But for me, O thou picture-land of sleep ! 
Thou art all one world of affections deep, — 
And wrung from my heart is each flushing dye 
That sweeps o'er thy chambers of imagery. 

And thy bowers are fair — even as Eden fair : 
All the beloved of my soul are there ! 
The forms my spirit most pines to see, 
The eyes whose love hath been life to me : 

They are there — and each blessed voice I hear, 
Kindly, and joyous, and silvery cle^.r ; 
But under- tones are in each, that say, — 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! " 

I walk with sweet friends in the sunset's glow ; 

I listen to music of long ago ; 

But one thought, like an omen, breathes faint thro' the lay,- 

" It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! " 

I sit by the hearth of my early days; 
All the home-faces are met by the blaze, — 
And the eyes of the mother shine soft, yet say, 
" It is but a dream ; it will melt away ! " 

And away, like a flower's passing breath, 'tis gone, 
And I wake more sadly, more deeply lone ! 
Oh ! a haunted heart is a weight to bear, — 
Bright faces, kind voices ! where are ye, where ? 

Shadow not forth, O thou land of dreams, 

The past, as it fled by my own blue streams ! 

Make not my spirit within me burn 

For the scenes and the hours that may ne'er return ! 



The Stranger's Heart, 227 

Call out from the future thy visions bright, 
From the world o'er the grave, take, thy solemn light, 
And oh ! with the loved whom no more I see, 
Show me my home, as it yet may be ! 

As it yet may be in some purer sphere, 

No cloud, no parting, no sleepless fear ; 

So my soul may bear on through the long, long day, 

Till I go where the beautiful melts not away ! 



THE STRANGER'S HEART. 

THE stranger's heart ! Oh, wound it not ! 
A yearning anguish is its lot ; 
In the green shadow of thy tree, 
The stranger finds no rest with thee. 

Thou think'st the vine's low rustling leaves 
Glad music round thy household eaves ; 
To him that sound hath sorrow's tone — 
The stranger's heart is with his own. 

Thou think'st thy children's laughing play 
A lovely sight at fall of day ; 
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppressed — 
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast. 

Thou think'st it sweet when friend with friend 
Beneath one roof in prayer may blend ; 
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim — 
Far, far are those who prayed with him. 



228 Woman on the Field of Battle. 

Thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage -land, 
The voices of thy kindred band — 
Oh ! midst them all when bless' d thou art, 
Deal gently with the stranger's heart ! 



WOMAN ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE. 

" Where hath not woman stood 
Strong in affection's might ? a reed, upborne 
By an overmastering current I " 

GENTLE and lovely form ! 
What didst thou here, 
When the fierce battle-storm 
Bore down the spear ? 

Banner and shivered crest, 

Beside thee strown, 
Tell that amidst the best 

Thy work was done ! 

Yet strangely, sadly fair, 

O'er the wild scene, 
Gleams, through its golden hair, 

That brow serene. 

Low lies the stately head, — 

Earth-bound the free ; 
How gave those haughty dead 

A place to thee ? 






Woman on the Field of Battle. 229 

Slumberer ! thine early bier 

Friends should have crowned, 
Many a flower and tear 

Shedding around ; — 

Soft voices, clear and young, 

Mingling their swell, 
Should o'er thy dust have sung 

Earth's last farewell ; — 

Sisters, above the grave 

Of thy repose, 
Should have bid violets wave 

With the white rose. 

Now must the trumpet's note, 

Savage and shrill, 
For requiem o'er thee float, 

Thou fair and still ! 

And the swift charger sweep 

In full career, 
Trampling thy place of sleep — 

Why cam'st thou here ? 

Why ? Ask the true heart why 

Woman hath been 
Ever where brave men die, 

Unshrinking seen ? 

Unto this harvest ground 

Proud reapers came, — 
Some, for that stirring sound, 

A warrior's name : 



,i 



230 The Magic Glass. 

Some for the stormy play 

And joy of strife ; 
And some to fling away 

A weary life; — 

But thou, pale sleeper ! thou 
With the slight frame, 

And the rich locks, whose glow 
Death cannot tame; 

Only one thought, one power, 
Thee could have led, 

So, through the tempest's hour, 
To lift thy head ! 

Only the true, the strong, 
The love, whose trust 

Woman's deep soul too long 
Pours on the dust ! 



THE MAGIC GLASS. 

1 How lived, how loved, how died they ?" — Byron. 









THE dead ! the glorious dead ! — and shall they rise ? 
Shall they look on thee with their proud bright eyes ? 
Thou ask'st a fearful spell ! 
Yet say, from shrine or dim sepulchral hall, 
What kingly vision shall obey my call ? 
The deep grave knows it well ! 



The Magic Glass. 231 

" Wouldst thou behold earth's conquerors? shall they pass 
Before thee, flushing all the Magic Glass 

With triumph's long array ? 
Speak ! and those dwellers of the marble urn, 
Robed for the feast of victory, shall return, 

As on their proudest day. 

" Or wouldst thou look upon the lords of song? 
O'er the dark mirror that immortal throng 

Shall waft a solemn gleam ! 
Passing, with lighted eyes and radiant brows, 
Under the foliage of green laurel boughs, 

But silent as a dream." 

" Not these, O mighty master! — though their lays 
Be unto man's free heart, and tears, and praise, 

Hallowed for evermore ! 
And not the buried conquerors — let them sleep, 
And let the flowery earth her sabbaths keep 

In joy, from shore to shore ! 

" But, if the narrow house may so be moved, 
Call the bright shadows of the most beloved 

Back from their couch of rest ! 
That I may learn if their meek eyes be filled 
With peace, if human love hath ever stilled 

The yearning human breast. " 

" Away, fond youth ! — an idle quest is thine : 
These have no trophy, no memorial shrine ; 

I know not of their place ! 
Midst the dim valleys, with a secret flow, 
Their lives, like shepherd reed-notes, faint and low, 

Have passed, and left no trace. 



3 2 The Ruin. 

" Haply, begirt with shadowy woods and hills, 
* And the wild sounds of melancholy rills, 

Their covering turf may bloom ; 
But ne'er hath fame made relics of its flowers — 
Never hath pilgrim sought their household bowers, 

Or poet hailed their tomb." 

' ' Adieu, then, master of the midnight spell ! 

Some voice, perchance, by those lone graves may tell 

That which I pine to know T ! 
I haste to seek, from woods and valleys deep, 
Where the beloved are laid in lowly sleep, 

Records of joy and woe." 



THE RUIN. 



' Oh ! His the heart that magnifies this life, 
Making a truth and beatity of its ouru." 

— Wordsworth. 

1 Birth has gladdened it: death has sanctified it." 

— Guesses at Truth. 



NO dower of storied song is thine, 
O desolate abode ! 
Forth from thy gates no glittering line 

Of lance and spear hath flowed. 
Banners of knighthood have not flung 

Proud drapery o'er thy walls, 
Nor bugle-notes to battle rung 
Through thy resounding halls. 



The Ruin. 233 

Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here 

By courtly hands been dressed, 
For princes, from the chase of deer, 

Under green leaves to rest : 
Only some rose, yet lingering bright 

Beside thy casements lone, 
Tells where the spirit of delight 

Hath dwelt, and now is gone. 

Yet minstrel-tale of harp and sword, 

And sovereign beauty's lot, 
House of quenched light and silent board ! 

For me thou needest not. 
It is enough to know that here, 

Where thoughtfully I stand, 
Sorrow and love, and hope and fear, 

Have linked one kindred band. 

Thou bindest me with mighty spells ! 

— A solemnising breath, 
A presence all around thee dwells 

Of human life and death, 
I need but pluck yon garden flower 

From where the wild weeds rise, 
To wake, with strange and sudden power, 

A thousand sympathies. 

Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth ! 

Deserted now by all ! 
Voices at eve here met in mirth 

Which eve may ne'er recall. 
Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone, 

And childhood's laughing glee, 
And song and prayer, have all been known, 

Hearth of the dead ! to thee. - 



234 The Ruin. 

Thou hast heard blessings fondly poured 

Upon the infant head, 
As if in every fervent word 

The living soul were shed ; 
Thou hast seen partings, such as bear 

The bloom from life away — 
Alas ! for love in changeful air, 

Where naught beloved can stay ! 

Here, by the restless bed of pain, 

The vigil hath been kept, 
Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain, 

Burst forth on eyes that wept ; 
Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom, 

The breathless influence, shed 
Through the dim dwelling, from the room 

Wherein reposed the dead. 

The seat left void, the missing face, 

Have here been marked and mourned, 
And time hath filled the vacant place, 

And gladness hath returned ; 
Till from the narrowing household chain 

The links dropped one by one ! 
And homewards hither, o'er the main, 

Came the spring birds alone. 

Is there not cause, then — cause for thought, 

Fixed eye and lingering tread, 
Vhere, with their thousand mysteries fraught, 

Even lowliest hearts have bled ? 
Where, in its ever-haunting thirst 

For draughts of purer day, 
Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath burst 

The clouds that wrapt its way ? 




The Voice of the Wind. 235 

Holy to human nature seems 

The long-forsaken spot — 
To deep affections, tender dreams, 

Hopes of a brighter lot ! 
Therefore in silent reverence here, 

Hearth of the dead ! I stand, 
Where joy and sorrow, smile and tear, 

Have linked one household band. 



THE VOICE OF THE WIND. 



: There is nothing in the wide world so like the voice of a spirit." 

— Gray's 'Letters." 



OH ! many a voice is thine, thou Wind ! full many a 
voice is thine ! 
From every scene thy wing o'ersweeps thou bear'st a sound 

and sign; 
A minstrel wild and strong thou art, with a mastery all 

thine own, 
And the spirit is thy harp, O Wind ! that gives the an- 
swering tone. 

Thou hast been across red fields of war, where shivered 

helmets lie, 
And thou bringest thence the thrilling note of a clarion in 

the sky ; 
A rustling of proud banner-folds, a peal of stormy drums, — 
All these are in thy music met, as when a leader comes. 



236 . The Voice of the Wind. 

Thou hast been o'er solitary seas, and from their wastes 

brought back 
Each noise of waters that awoke in the mystery of thy 

track — 
The chime of low, soft, southern waves on some green palmy 

shore, 
The hollow roll of distant surge, the gathered billows' roar. 



Thou art come from forests dark and deep, thou mighty 
rushing Wind ! 

And thou bearest all their unisons in one full swell com- 
bined ; 

The restless pines, the moaning stream, all hidden things 
and free, 

Of the dim, old, sounding wilderness, have lent their soul 
to thee. 



Thou art come from cities lighted up for the conqueror 

passing by, 
Thou art wafting from their streets a sound of haughty 

revelry ; 
The rolling of triumphant wheels, the harpings in the hall, 
The far-off shout of multitudes, are in thy rise and fall. 



Thou art come from kingly tombs and shrines, from ancient 

minsters vast, 
Through the dark aisles of a thousand years thy lonely wing 

hath passed ; 
Thou hast caught the anthem's billowy swell, the stately 

dirge's tone, 
For a chief, with sword and shield and helm, to his place 

of slumber gone. 



The Nightingale's Death- Song. 237 

Thou art come from long-forsaken homes, wherein our young 

days flew, 
Thou hast found sweet voices lingering there, the loved, the 

kind, the true ; 
Thou callest back those melodies, though now all changed 

and fled — 
Be still, be still, and haunt us not with music from the 

dead ! 

Are all these notes in thee, wild wind ? these many notes in 

thee? 
Far in our own unfathomed souls their fount must surely be ; 
Yes ! buried, but unsleeping, there thought watches, memory 

lies, 
From whose deep urn the tones are poured through all 

earth's harmonies. 



THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEATH-SONG. 

" Willst du 7iach den Nachtigallen fragen, 

Die mit seelenvollen melodie 
' Dick entzuckten in des Lenzes Tagen 1 

— Nur so lang sie liebten, waren sie." — Schiller. 

MOURNFULLY, sing mournfully, 
And die away, my heart ! 
The rose, the glorious rose is gone, 
And I, too, will depart. 

The skies have lost their splendour, 
The waters changed their tone, 

And, wherefore in the faded world, 
Should music linger on ? 



238 The Nightingale's Death- Song. 

Where is the golden sunshine, 

And where the flower-cup's glow ? 

And where the joy of the dancing leaves, 
And the fountain's laughing flow ? 

A voice, in every whisper 

Of the wave, the bough, the air, 

Comes asking for the beautiful, 

And moaning, ' ' Where, oh ! where ? " 

Tell of the brightness parted, 
Thou bee, thou lamb at play ! 

Thou lark, in thy victorious mirth ! 
— Are ye, too, passed away ? 

Mournfully, sing mournfully ! 

The royal rose is gone : 
Melt from the woods, my spirit ! melt 

In one deep farewell tone ! 

Not so ! — swell forth triumphantly 
The full, rich, fervent strain ! 

Hence with young love and life I go, 
In the summer's joyous train. 

With sunshine, with sweet odour, 
With every precious thing, 

Upon the last warm southern breeze 
My soul its flight shall wing. 

Alone I shall not linger, 

When the days of hope are past, 

To watch the fall of leaf by leaf, 
To wait the rushing blast. 






The Burial in the Desert. 239 

Triumphantly, triumphantly ! 

Sing to the woods, I go ! 
For me, perchance, in other lands, 

The glorious rose may blow. 

The sky's transparent azure, 

And the greensward's violet breath, 
And the dance of light leaves in the wind, 

May there know naught of death. 

No more, no more sing mournfully ! 

Swell high, then break, my heart ! 
With love, the spirit of the woods, 

With summer I depart ! 



THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT. 

" How weeps y 071 gallant band 
O'er him their valotir could not save ! 
For the bayonet is red with gore, 
And he, the beautiftd and brave, 

Now sleeps in Egypt's sand." — Wilson. 

IN the shadow of the Pyramid 
Our brother's grave we made, 
When the battle- day was done, 
And the desert's parting sun 
A field of death surveyed. 

The blood-red sky above us 
Was darkening into night, 

And the Arab watching silently 
Our sad and hurried rite ; 



240 The Burial in the Desert. 

The voice ot Egypt's river 
Came hollow and profound ; 

And one lone palm-tree, where we stood, 
Rocked with a shivery sound : 

While the shadow of the Pyramid 
Hung o'er the grave we made, 

When the battle- day was done, 

And the desert's parting sun 
A field of death surveyed. 

The fathers of our brother 

Were borne to knightly tombs, 

With torch-light and with anthem-note, 
And many waving plumes : 

But he, the last and noblest 
Of that high Norman race, 

With a few brief words of coldier-love 
Was gathered to his place ; 

In the shadow of the Pyramid, 
Where his youthful form we laid, 

When the battle-day was done, 

And the desert's parting sun 
A field of death surveyed. 

But let him, let him slumber 
By the old Egyptian wave ! 

It is well with those who bear their fame 
Unsullied to the grave ! 

When brightest names are breathed on, 
When loftiest fall so fast, 






The Mirror in the Deserted Hall. 241 

We would not call our brother back 
On dark days to be cast, — 

From the shadow of the Pyramid, 

Where his noble heart we laid, 
When the battle-day was done, 
And the desert's parting sun 

A field of death surveyed. 



THE MIRROR IN THE DESERTED HALL. 

ODIM, forsaken mirror ! 
How many a stately throng 
Hath o'er thee gleamed in vanished hours 
Of the .wine-cup and the song ! 

The song hath left no echo ; 
The bright wine hath been quaffed ; 
And hushed is every silvery voice 
That lightly here hath laughed. 

O mirror — lonely mirror ! 
Thou of the silent hall ! 
Thou hast been flushed with beauty's bloom — 
Is this, too, vanished all ? 

It is, with the scattered garlands 
Of triumphs long ago, 
With the melodies of buried lyres, 
With the faded rainbow's glow. 
Q 



242 The Stream set Free. 

And for all the gorgeous pageants — 
For the glance of gem and plume, 
For lamp, and harp, and rosy wreath, 
And vase of rich perfume — 

Now, dim, forsaken mirror ! 
Thou givest but faintly back 
The quiet stars, and the sailing moon, 
On her solitary track. 

And thus with man's proud spirit 
Thou tellest me 'twill be, 
When the forms and hues of this world fade 
From his memory, as from thee : 

And his heart's long troubled waters 
At last in stillness lie, 
Reflecting but the images 
Of the solemn world on high. 



THE STREAM SET FREE. 

FLOW on, rejoice, make music, 
Bright living stream set free ! 
The troubled haunts of care and strife 
Were not for thee ! 

The woodland is thy country, 
Thou art all its own again ; 

The wild birds are thy kindred race, 
That fear no chain. 



The Stream set Free. 243 

Flow on, rejoice, make music 

Unto the glistening leaves ! 
Thou, the beloved of balmy winds 

And golden eaves ! 

Once more the holy starlight 

Sleeps calm upon thy breast, 
Whose brightness bears no token more 

Of man's unrest. 

Flow, and let freeborn music 

Flow with thy wavy line, 
While the stock-dove's lingering, loving voice 

Comes blent with thine. 

And the green reeds quivering o'er thee, 

Strings of the forest-lyre, 
All filled with answering spirit-sounds, 

In joy respire. 

Yet, midst thy song's glad changes, 

Oh ! keep one pitying tone 
For gentle hearts, that bear to thee 

Their sadness lone. 

One sound, of all the deepest, 

To bring, like healing dew, 
A sense that nature ne'er forsakes 

The meek and true. 

Then, then rejoice, make music, 

Thou stream, thou glad and free ! 
The shadows of all glorious flowers 

Be set in thee ! 



ii 



244 Marshal Schweriris Grave. 



MARSHAL SCHWERIN'S GRAVE. 

[" I came upon the tomb of Marshal Schwerin — a plain, quiet ceno- 
taph, erected in the middle of a wide corn-field, on the very spot where 
he closed a long, faithful, and glorious career in arms. He fell here, 
at eighty years of age, at the head of his own regiment, the standard of 
it waving in his hand. His seat was in the leathern saddle — his foot in 
the iron stirrup — his fingers reined the young war-horse to the last." — 
Notes and Reflections during a Ramble into Germany.} 

THOU didst fall in the field with thy silver hair, 
And a banner in thy hand ; 
Thou wert laid to rest from thy battles there, 
By a proudly mournful band. 

In the camp, on the steed, to the bugle's blast, 

Thy long bright years had sped ; 
And a warrior's bier was thine at last, 

When the snows had crowned thy head. 

Many had fallen by thy side, old chief ! 

Brothers and friends, perchance ; 
But thou wert yet as the fadeless leaf, 

And light was in thy glance. 

The soldier's heart at thy step leapt high, 

And thy voice the war-horse knew ; 
And the first to arm, when the foe was nigh, 

Wert thou, the bold and true. 

Now mayst thou slumber — thy work is done — 

Thou of the well-worn sword ! 
From the stormy fight in thy fame thou'rt gone, 

But not to the festal board. 






Oh! droop thou not. 245 

The corn-sheaves whisper thy grave around, 

Where fiery blood hath flowed : 
O lover of battle and trumpet- sound ! 

Thou art couched in a still abode ! 

A quiet home from the noonday's glare, 

And the breath of the wintry blast — 
Didst thou toil through the days of thy silvery hair, 

To win thee but this at last ? 



OH! DROOP THOU NOT. 

' ' They sin who tell us love can die I 
With life all other passions Jly — 
All others are btct vanity. 
In heaven ambition cannot dwell, 
Nor avarice in the vaults of hell; 
Earthly these passions, as of earth — ■ 
They perish where they dre%v their birth. 
But love is indestrtictible I 
Its holy flame for ever burnetii — 
Fro7n heaven it came, to heaven returneth.'' , 

— Southey. 

OH ! droop thou not, my gentle earthly love ! 
Mine still to be ! 
I bore through death, to brighter lands above, 
My thoughts of thee. 

Yes ! the deep memory of our holy tears, 

Our mingled prayer, 
Our suffering love, through long devoted years, 

Went with me there. 



246 Oh! droop thou not 

It was not vain, the hallowed and the tried — 

It was not vain ! 
Still, though unseen, still hovering at thy side, 

I watch again ! 

From our own paths, our love's attesting bowers, 

I am not gone ; 
In the deep calm of midnight's whispering hours, 

Thou art not lone : 

Not lone, when by the haunted stream thou weepest — 

That stream whose tone 
Murmurs of thoughts, the richest and the deepest, 

We two have known : 

Not lone, when mournfully some strain awaking 

Of days long past, 
From thy soft eyes the sudden tears are breaking 

Silent and fast : 

Not lone, when upwards in fond visions turning 

Thy dreamy glance, 
Thou seek'st my home, where solemn stars are burning 

O'er night's expanse. 

My home is near thee, loved one ! and around thee, 

Where'er thou art ; 
Though still mortality's thick cloud hath bound thee, 

Doubt not thy heart ! 

Hear its low voice, nor deem thyself forsaken : 

Let faith be given 
To the still tones which oft our being waken — 

They are of heaven. 






Cathedral Hymn. 247 



CATHEDRAL HYMN. 

' They dreamt not of a perishable home 
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hottrs of fear 
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge Jiere." — Wordsworth. 

A DIM and mighty minster of old time ! 
A temple shadowy with remembrances 
Of the majestic past ! The very light 
Streams with a colouring of heroic days 
In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle 
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back 
To other years ! — and the rich fretted roof, 
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves, 
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose — 
The tenderest image of mortality- 
Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts 
Cluster like stems in corn-sheaves ; — all these things 
Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly, 
On their heart's worship poured a wealth of love! 
Honour be with the dead ! The people kneel 
Under the helms of antique chivalry, 
And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, 
And midst the forms, in pale, proud slumber carved, 
Of warriors on their tombs. The people kneel 
Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt ; where jewelled crowns 
On the flushed brows of conquerors have been set ; 
Where the high anthems of old victories 
Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain thoughts ! 
Memories of power and pride, which long ago, 
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk 
In twilight-depths away. Return, my soul ! 



2 48 Cathedral Hymn. 

The Cross recalls thee. Lo ! the blessed Cross ! 

High o'er the banners and the crests of earth, 

Fixed in its meek and still supremacy ! 

And lo ! the throng of beating human hearts, 

With all their secret scrolls of buried grief, 

All their full treasures of immortal hope, 

Gathered before their God ! Hark ! how the flood 

Of the rich organ-harmony bears up 

Their voice on its high waves ! — a mighty burst ! 

A forest-sounding music ! Every tone 

Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings 

From gulfs of tossing foliage, there is blent : 

And the old minster — forest-like itself — 

With its long avenues of pillared shade, 

Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain 

O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not 

One tomb unthrilled by the strong sympathy 

Answering th' electric notes. Join, join, my soul ! 

In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness, 

And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn. 

Rise like an altar- fire ! 

In solemn joy aspire, 
Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain ! 

On thy strong rushing wind 

Bear up from humankind 
Thanks and implorings — be they not in vain ! 

Father, which art on high ! 

Weak is the melody 
Of harp or song, to reach thine awful ear, 

Unless the heart be there, 

Winging the words of prayer 
With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear. 



Cathedral Hymn. 249 

Let, then, thy Spirit brood 

Over the multitude — 
Be thou amidst them, through that heavenly Guest ! 

So shall their cry have power 

To win from thee a shower 
Of healing gifts for every wounded breast. 

What griefs that make no sign, 

That ask no aid but thine, 
Father of mercies ! here before thee swell ! 

As to the open sky, 

All their dark waters lie 
To thee revealed, in each close bosom -cell. 

The sorrow for the dead, 

Mantling its lonely head 
From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free ; 

And the fond, aching love, 

Thy minister to move 
All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee. 

And doth not thy dread eye 

Behold the agony 
In that most hidden chamber of the heart, 

Where darkly sits remorse, 

Beside the secret source 
Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart ? 

Yes ! here before thy throne 

Many — yet each alone — 
To thee that terrible unveiling make : 

And still, small whispers clear 

Are startling many an ear, 
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake. 



250 Cathedral Hymn. 

How dreadful is this place ! ' 

The glory of thy face 
Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight. 

Where shall the guilty flee ? 

Over what far-off sea ? 
What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light ? 

Not to the cedar-shade 

Let his vain flight be made ; 
Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea ; 

What, but the Cross, can yield 

The hope — the stay — the shield ? 
Thence may th' Atoner lead him up to thee ! 

Be thou, be thou his aid ! 

Oh, let thy love pervade 
The haunted caves of self-accusing thought ! 

There let the living stone 

Be cleft — the seed be sown — 
The song of fountains from the silence brought ! 



So shall thy breath once more 

Within the soul restore 
Thine own first image — Holiest and Most High ! 

As a clear lake is filled 

With hues of heaven, instilled 
Down to the depths of its calm purity. 

And if, amidst the throng 

Linked by th' ascending song, 
There are whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar ; 

Thanks, Father ! that the power 

Of joy, man's early dower, 
Thus, e'en midst tears, can fervently adore ! 



The Festal Hour. 251 

Thanks for each gift divine ! 

Eternal praise be thine, 
Blessing and love, O thou that hearest prayer ! 

Let the hymn pierce the sky, 

And let the tombs reply ! 
For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there. 



THE FESTAL HOUR. 

WHEN are the lessons given 
That shake the startled earth ? When wakes the 
foe 
While the friend sleeps ? When falls the traitor's blow ? 

When are proud sceptres riven, 
High hopes o'erthrown ? — It is when lands rejoice, 

When cities blaze and lift th' exulting voice, 
And wave their banners to the kindling heaven ! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
When mirth o'erflows, then tremble ! — 'Twas a night 
Of gorgeous revel, wreaths, and dance, and light, 

When through the regal bower 
The trumpet pealed ere yet the song was done, 
And there were shrieks in golden Babylon, 
And trampling armies, ruthless in their power. 

The marble shrines were crowned : 
Young voices, through the blue Athenian sky, 
And Dorian reeds, made summer-melody, 

And censers waved around ; 



252 The Festal Hour. 

And lyres were strung and bright libations poured ! 
When through the streets flashed out th' avenging sword, 
Fearless and free, the sword with myrtles bound ! 

Through Rome a triumph passed. 
Rich in her Sun-god's mantling beams went by 
That long array of glorious pageantry 

With shout and trumpet-blast. 
An empire's gems their starry splendour shed 
O'er the proud march ; a king in chains was led; 
A stately victor, crowned and robed, came last. 

And many a Dryad's bower 
Had lent the laurels which, in waving play, 
Stirred the warm air, and glistened round his way 

As a quick-flashing shower. 
— O'er his own porch, meantime, the cypress hung, 
Through his fair halls a cry of anguish rung — 
Woe for the dead ! — The father's broken flower ! 

A sound of lyre and song, 
In the still night, went floating o'er the Nile, 
Whose waves, by many an old mysterious pile, 

Swept with that voice along ; 
And lamps were shining o'er the red wine's foam 
Where a chief revelled in a monarch's dome, 
And fresh rose-garlands decked a glittering throng. 

'Twas Antony that bade 
The joyous chords ring out ! But strains arose 
Of wilder omen at the banquet's close ! 

Sounds, by no mortal made, 
Shook Alexandria through her streets that night, 
And passed — and with another sunset's light, 
The kingly Roman on his bier was laid. 



The Festal Hour. 253 

Bright midst its vineyards lay 
The fair Campanian city, with its towers 
And temples gleaming through dark olive-bowers, 

Clear in the golden day; 
Joy was around it as the glowing sky, 
And crowds had filled its halls of revelry, 
And all the sunny air was music's way. 

A cloud came o'er the face ' 
Of Italy's rich heaven ! — its crystal blue 
Was changed, and deepened to a wrathful hue 

Of night, o'ershadowing space 
As with the wings of death ! — in all his power 
Vesuvius woke, and hurled the burning shower, 
And who could tell the buried city's place ? 

Such things have been of yore, 
In the gay regions where the citrons blow, 
And purple summers all their sleepy glow 

On the grape- clusters pour ; 
And where the palms to spicy winds are waving, 
Along clear seas of melting sapphire, laving, 
As with a flow of light, their southern shore. 

Turn we to other climes ! — 
Far in the Druid isle a feast was spread, 
Midst the rock-altars of the warrior dead ; 

And ancient battle -rhymes 
Were chanted to the harp ; and yellow mead 
Went flowing round, and tales of martial deed 
And lofty songs of Britain's elder time ; — 

But ere the giant-fane 
Cast its broad shadows on the robe of even, 



254 The Festal Hour, 

Hushed were the bards, and in the face of heaven, 

O'er that old burial plain, 
Flashed the keen Saxon dagger ! — blood was streaming 
Where late the mead -cup to the sun was gleaming, 
And Britain's hearths were heaped that night in vain — 

For they returned no more ! 
They that went forth at morn, with reckless heart, 
In that fierce banquet's mirth to bear their part : 

And on the rushy floor, 
And the bright spears and bucklers of the walls, 
The high wood- fires were blazing in their halls ; 
But not for them — they slept — their feast was o'er ! 

Fear ye the festal hour ! 
Ay, tremble when the cup of joy o'erflows ! 
Tame down the swelling heart ! The bridal rose, 

And the rich myrtle's flower, 
Have veiled the sword ! Red wines have sparkled fast 
From venomed goblets, and soft breezes passed 
With fatal perfume through the revel's bower. 



Twine the young glowing wreath ! 
But pour not all your spirit in the song, 
Which through the sky's deep azure floats along 

Like summer's quickening breath ! 
The ground is hollow in the path of mirth : 
Oh ! far too daring seems the joy of earth, 
So darkly pressed and girdled in by death ! 



! 



Haunted Ground. 255 



HAUNTED GROUND. 

" And slight, withal, may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside for ever — it may be a sound, 
A tone of music, summer eve, or spri7ig, 
A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound, 

Striking the electric trai?i, wherewith we are darkly bound." 

— Byron. 

YES, it is haunted, this quiet scene, 
Fair as it looks, and all softly green ; 
Yet fear not thou — for the spell is thrown, 
And the might of the shadow, on me alone. 

Are thy thoughts wandering to elves and fays, 
And spirits that dwell where the water plays ? 
Oh ! in the heart there are stronger powers, 
That sway, though viewless, this world of ours ! 

Have I not lived midst these lonely dells, 
And loved, and sorrowed, and heard farewells, 
And learned in my own deep soul to look, 
And tremble before that mysterious book ? 

Have I not, under these whispering leaves, 
Woven such dreams as the young heart weaves ? 
Shadows — yet unto which life seemed bound ; 
And is it not — is it not haunted ground ? 

Must I not hear what thou hearest not, 
Troubling the air of the sunny spot ? 
Is there not something to rouse but me, 
Told by the rustling of every tree ? 



256 Haunted Ground. 

Song hath been here, with its flow of thought ; 
Love, with its passionate visions fraught ; 
Death, breathing stillness and sadness round ; 
And is it not — is it not haunted ground ? 

Are there no phantoms, but such as come 

By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb ? 

A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze, 

Can summon up mightier far than these ! 

But I may not linger amidst them here ! 
Lovely they are, and yet things to fear ; 
Passing and leaving a weight behind, 
And a thrill on the chords of the stricken mind. 

Away, away ! — that my soul may soar 

As a free bird of blue skies once more ! 

Here from its wing it may never cast 

The chain by those spirits brought back from the past. 

Doubt it not — smile not — but go thou, too, 
Look on the scenes where thy childhood grew — 
Where thou hast prayed at thy mother's knee, 
Where thou hast roved with thy brethren free ; 

Go thou, when life unto thee is changed, 
Friends thou hast loved as thy soul, estranged ; 
When from the idols thy heart hath made, 
Thou hast seen the colours of glory fade. 

Oh ! painfully then, by the wind's low sigh, 

By the voice of the stream, by the flower-cup's dye, 

By a thousand tokens of sight and sound, 

Thou wilt feel thou art treading on haunted ground. 



Kindred Hearts. 257 



KINDRED HEARTS. 

OH ! ask not, hope thou not too much 
Of sympathy below ! 
Few are the hearts whence one same touch 

Bids the sweet fountains flow — 
Few, and by still conflicting powers 

Forbidden here to meet : 
Such ties would make this life of ours 
Too fair for aught so fleet. 

It may be that thy brother's eye 

Sees not as thine, which turns 
In such deep reverence to the sky, 

Where the rich sunset burns : 
It may be that the breath of spring, 

Born amidst violets lone, 
A rapture o'er thy soul can bring — 

A dream to his unknown. 

The tune that speaks of other times — 

A sorrowful delight ! 
The melody of distant chimes, 

The sound of waves by night, 
The wind that, with so many a tone, 

Some chord within can thrill, — 
These may have language all thine own, 

To him a mystery still. 

Yet scorn thou not, for this, the true 

And steadfast love of years ; 
The kindly, that from childhood grew, 

The faithful to thy tears ! 
R 



258 The Graves of Martyrs. 

If there be one that o'er the dead 
Hath in thy grief borne part, 

And watched through sickness by thy bed,- 
Call his a kindred heart ! 

But for those bonds all perfect made, 

Wherein bright spirits blend, 
Like sister flowers of one sweet shade 

With the same breeze that bend — 
For that full bliss of thought allied 

Never to mortals given, 
Oh ! lay thy lovely dreams aside, 

Or lift them unto heaven. 




THE GRAVES OF MARTYRS. 

THE kings of old have shrine and tomb 
In many a minster's haughty gloom ; 
And green, along the ocean side, 
The mounds arise where heroes died ; 
But show me, on thy flowery breast, 
Earth ! where thy nameless martyrs rest ! 

The thousands that, uncheered by praise, 
Have made one offering of their days ; 
For Truth, for Heaven, for Freedom's sake, 
Resigned the bitter cup to take ; 
And silently, in fearless faith, 
Bowing their noble souls to death. 



The Graves of Martyrs. 259 

Where sleep they, Earth ? By no proud stone 

Their narrow couch of rest is known ; 

The still sad glory of their name 

Hallows no fountain unto Fame; 

No — not a tree the record bears 

Of their deep thoughts and lonely prayers. 

Yet haply all around lie strewed 

The ashes of that multitude : 

It may be that each day we tread 

Where thus devoted hearts have bled ; 

And the young flowers our children sow, 

Take root in holy dust below. 

Oh, that the many-rustling leaves, 
Which round our homes the summer weaves, 
Or that the streams, in whose glad voice 
Our own familiar paths rejoice, 
Might whisper through the starry sky, 
To tell where those blest slumberers lie ! 

Would not our inmost hearts be stilled, 
With knowledge of their presence filled, 
And by its breathings taught to prize 
The meekness of self-sacrifice ? 
— But the old woods and sounding waves 
Are silent of those hidden graves. 

Yet what if no light footstep there 
In pilgrim-love and awe repair, 
So let it be ! Like him, whose clay 
Deep buried by his Maker lay, 
They sleep in secret, — but their sod, 
Unknown to man, is marked of God ! 



260 The Voice of Home to the Prodigal. 



THE VOICE OF HOME TO THE PRODIGAL. 



" Von Baumen, aus Welle7i> aus Mauern, 
Wie rtift es dir freundlich tmd lind; 
Was hast du zu ixjandern, zu trauerfi ? 
IConim' sfiielen, du freundliches Kind!" 

— La Motte Fouque. 

OH ! when wilt thou return 
To thy spirit's early loves ? 
To the freshness of the morn, 
To the stillness of the groves ? 

The summer birds are calling 
Thy household porch around, 

And the merry waters falling 

With sweet laughter in their sound. 

And a thousand bright-veined flowers, 
From their banks of moss and fern, 

Breathe of the sunny hours — 
But when wilt thou return ? 

Oh ! thou hast wandered long 
From thy home without a guide ; 

And thy native woodland song 
In thine altered heart hath died. 

Thou hast flung the wealth awa}/, 

And the glory of thy spring ; 
And to thee the leaves' light play 

Is a long-forgotten thing. 



The Voice of Home to the Prodigal. 261 

But when wilt thou return ? — 

Sweet dews may freshen soon 
The flower, within whose urn 

Too fiercely gazed the noon. 

O'er the image of the sky, 

Which the lake's clear bosom wore, 

Darkly may shadows lie — 
But not for evermore. 

Give back thy heart again 

To the freedom of the woods, 
To the bird's triumphant strain, 

To the mountain solitudes ! 

But when wilt thou return ? 

Along thine own pure air 
There are young sweet voices borne — 

Oh ' should not thine be there ? 

Still at thy father's board 

There is kept a place for thee ; 
And, by thy smile restored, 

Joy round the hearth shall be. 

Still hath thy mother's eye, 

Thy coming step to greet, 
A look of days gone by, 

Tender and gravely sweet. 

Still, when the prayer is said, 

For thee kind bosoms yearn, 
For thee fond tears are shed — 

Oh ! when wilt thou return ? 



262 The Boon of Memory. 

THE BOON OF MEMORY. 

" Many things answered me ." — Manfred. 

I GO, I go ! — and must mine image fade 
From the green spots wherein my childhood placed, 
By my own streams ? 
Must my life part from each familiar place, 
As a bird's song, that leaves the woods no trace 
Of its lone themes ? 

Will the friend pass my dwelling, and forget 
The welcomes there, the hours when we have met 

In grief or glee ? 
All the sweet counsel, the communion high, 
The kindly words of trust, in days gone by, 

Poured full and free ? 

A boon, a talisman, O Memory ! give, 

To shrine my name in hearts where I would live 

For evermore ! 
Bid the wind speak of me where I have dwelt, 
Bid the stream's voice, of all my soul hath felt, 

A thought restore ! 

In the rich rose, whose bloom I loved so well, 
In the dim brooding violet of the dell, 

Set deep that thought ; 
And let the sunset's melancholy glow, 
And let the spring's first whisper, faint and low, 

With me be fraught ! 



The Boon of Memory. 263 

And Memory answered me : — " Wild wish and vain ! 
I have no hues the loveliest to detain 

In the heart's core. 
The place they held in bosoms all their own, 
Soon with new shadows filled, new flowers o'ergrown, 

Is theirs no more." 

Hast thou such power, O Love ? And Love replied : — 
" It is not mine ! Pour out thy soul's full tide 

Of hope and trust, 
Prayer, tear, devotedness, that boon to gain — 
'Tis but to write, with the heart's fiery rain, 

Wild words on dust ! " 

Song, is the gift with thee ? I ask a lay, 
Soft, fervent, deep, that will not pass away 

From the still breast ; 
Filled with a tone — oh ! not for deathless fame, 
But a sweet haunting murmur of my name, 

Where it would rest. 

And Song made answer : — ' l It is not in me, 
Though called immortal ; though my gifts may be 

All but divine. 
A place of lonely brightness I can give : 
A changeless one, where thou with Love wouldst live — 

This is not mine!" 

Death, Death! wilt thou the restless wish fulfil? 
And Death, the Strong One, spoke : — " I can but still 

Each vain regret. 
What if forgotten ? — All thy soul would crave, 
Thou, too, within the mantle of the grave, 

Wilt soon forget." 



264 The Lady of Provence. 

Then did my heart in lone faint sadness die, 
As from all nature's voices one reply, 

But one — was given. 
' ' Earth has no heart, fond dreamer ! with a tone 
To send thee back the spirit of thine own — 

Seek it in heaven." 



THE LADY OF PROVENCE. 

" Courage was cast about her like a dress 
Of solemn comeliness, 
A gathered mind and an untroubled face 
Did give her dangers grace." — Donne. 

THE war-note of the Saracen 
Was on the winds of France ; 
It had stilled the harp of the Troubadour, 

And the clash of the tourney's lance. 
The sounds of the sea, and the sounds of the night, 
And the hollow echoes of charge and flight, 
Were around Clotilde, as she knelt to pray 
In a chapel where the mighty lay, 

On the old Provencal shore. 
Many a Chatillon beneath, 
Unstirred by the ringing trumpet's breath, 

His shroud of armour wore ; 
And the glimpses of moonlight that went and came 
Through the clouds, like bursts of a dying flame, 
Gave quivering life to the slumber pale 
Of stern forms couched in their marble mail, 



The Lady of Provence. 265 

At rest on the tombs of the knightly race, 
The silent throngs of that burial-place. 

They were imaged there with helm and spear, 
As leaders in many a bold career, 
And haughty their stillness looked and high, 
Like a sleep whose dreams were of victory. 
But meekly the voice of the lady rose 
Through the trophies of their proud repose ; 
Meekly, yet fervently, calling down aid, 
Under their banners of battle she prayed ; 
With her pale, fair brow, and her eyes of love, 
Upraised to the Virgin's portrayed above, 
And her hair flung back, till it swept the grave 
Of a Chatillon with its gleamy wave ; 
And her fragile frame, at every blast, 
That full of the savage war-horn passed, 
Trembling, as trembles a bird's quick heart, 
When it vainly strives from its cage to part — 

So knelt she in her woe ; 
A weeper alone with the tearless dead — 
Oh ! they reck not of tears o'er their quiet shed, 

Or the dust had stirred below ! 

Hark ! a swift step ! she hath caught its tone, 

Through the dash of the sea, through the wild wind's moan : 

Is her lord returned with his conquering bands ? 

No ! a breathless vassal before her stands ! — 

* ' Hast thou been on the field ? Art thou come from the host ? " 

— "From the slaughter, lady — All, all is lost ! 

Our banners are taken, our knights laid low, 

Our spearmen chased by the Paynim foe ; 

And thy lord" — his voice took a sadder sound — 

* ' Thy lord — he is not on the bloody ground ! 



266 The Lady of Provence. 

There are those who tell that the leader's plume 
Was seen on the flight through the gathering gloom. " 

— A change o'er her mien and her spirit passed : 

She ruled the heart which had beat so fast, 

She dashed the tears from her kindling eye, 

With a glance, as of sudden royalty : 

The proud blood sprang in a fiery flow, 

Quick o'er bosom, and cheek, and brow, 

And her young voice rose till the peasant shook 

At the thrilling tone and the falcon -look : 

— " Dost thou stand by the tombs of the glorious dead, 

And fear not to say that their son hath fled ? 

— Away! he is lying by lance and shield, — 

Point me the path to his battle-field !" 

The shadows of the forest 

Are about the lady now ; 
She is hurrying through the midnight on, 

Beneath the dark pine-bough. 

There's a murmur of omens in every leaf, 

There's a wail in the stream like the dirge of a chief; 

The branches that rock to the tempest strife 

Are groaning like things of troubled life ; 

The wind from the battle seems rushing by 

With a funeral-march through the gloomy sky ; 

The pathway is rugged, and wild, and long, 

But her frame in the daring of love is strong, 

And her soul as on swelling seas upborne, 

And girded all fearful things to scorn. 

And fearful things were around her spread, 
When she reached the field of the warrior-dead ; 






The Lady of Provence. 267 

There lay the noble, the valiant, low — 

Ay, but one word speaks of deeper woe ; 

There lay the loved — on each fallen head 

Mothers vain blessings and tears had shed ; 

Sisters were watching in many a home 

For the fettered footstep, no more to come ; 

Names in the prayer of that night were spoken, 

Whose claim unto kindred prayer was broken ; 

And the fire was heaped, and the bright wine poured, 

For those, now needing nor hearth nor board ; 

Only a requiem, a shroud, a knell, 

And oh ! ye beloved of women, farewell ! 

Silently, with lips compressed, 
Pale hands clasped above her breast, 
Stately brow of anguish high, 
Death-like cheek, but dauntless eye ; 
Silently, o'er that red plain, 
Moved the lady midst the slain. 

Sometimes it seemed as a charging cry, 
Or the ringing tramp of a steed, came nigh ; 
Sometimes a blast of the Paynim horn, 
Sudden and shrill from the mountains borne ; 
And her maidens trembled ; — but on /z<?r ear 
No meaning fell with those sounds of fear ; 
They had less of mastery to shake her now, 
Than the quivering, erewhile, of an aspen-bough. 
She searched into many an unclosed eye, 
That looked, without soul, to the starry sky ; 
She bowed down o'er many a shattered breast, 
She lifted up helmet and cloven crest — 

Not there, not there he lay ! 



268 The Lady of Provence. 

' ' Lead where the most hath been dared and done, 
Where the heart of the battle hath bled, — lead on ! " 
And the vassal took the way. 

He turned to a dark and lonely tree 
That waved o'er a fountain red : 

Oh ! swiftest there had the currents free 
From noble veins been shed. 

Thickest there the spear-heads gleamed, 
And the scattered plumage streamed, 
And the broken shields were tossed, 
And the shivered lances crossed, 
And the mail-clad sleepers round 
Made the harvest of that ground. 

He was there ! the leader amidst his band, 
Where the faithful had made their last, vain stand ; 
He was there ! but affection's glance alone 
The darkly- changed in that hour had known; 
With the falchion yet in his cold hand grasped, 
And a banner of France to his bosom clasped, 
And the form that of conflict bore fearful trace, 
And the face — oh ! speak not of that dead face ! , 
As it lay to answer love's look no more, 
Yet never so proudly loved before ! 

She quelled in her soul the deep floods of woe, — 
The time was not yet for their waves to flow ; 
She felt the full presence, the might of death, 
Yet there came no sob with her struggling breath ; 
And a proud smile shone o'er her pale despair, 
As she turned to his followers — " Your lord is there ! 
Look on him ! know him by scarf and crest ! — 
Bear him away with his sires to rest !" 



: 



The Lady of Provence. 269 

Another day, another night, 

And the sailor on the deep 
Hears the low chant of a funeral-rite 

From the lordly chapel sweep. 

It comes with a broken and muffled tone, 

As if that rite were in terror done ; 

Yet the song midst the seas hath a thrilling power, 

And he knows 'tis a chieftain's burial hour. 

Hurriedly, in fear and woe, 

Through the aisle the mourners go ; 

With a hushed and stealthy tread, 

Bearing on the noble dead ; 

Sheathed in the armour of the field — 

Only his wan face revealed, 

Whence the still and solemn gleam 

Doth a strange sad contrast seem 

To the anxious eyes of that pale band, 

With torches wavering in every hand, 

For they dread each moment the shout of war, 

And the burst of the Moslem scimitar. 

There is no plumed head o'er the bier to bend, 

No brother of battle, no princely friend : 

No sound comes back, like the sounds of yore, 

Unto sweeping swords from the marble floor ; 

By the red fountain the valiant lie, 

The flower of Provencal chivalry; 

But one free step, and one lofty heart, 

Bear through that scene to the last their part. 

She hath led the death-train of the brave 
To the verge of his own ancestral grave ; 



270 The Lady of Provence. 

She hath held o'er her spirit long rigid sway, 
But the struggling passion must now have way. 
In the cheek, half seen through her mourning veil, 
By turns does the swift blood flush and fail ; 
The pride on the lip is lingering still, 
But it shakes as a flame to the blast might thrill ; 
Anguish and triumph are met at strife, 
Rending the cords of her frail young life ; 
And she sinks at last on her warrior's bier, 
Lifting her voice, as if death might hear. 
" I have won thy fame from the breath of wrong, 
My soul hath risen for thy glory strong ! 
Now call me hence, by thy side to be, 
The world thou leav'st has no place for me. 
The light goes with thee, the joy, the worth — 
Faithful and tender ! Oh ! call me forth ! 
Give me my home on thy noble heart, — , 
Well have we loved, let us both depart!" — 
And pale on the breast of the dead she lay, 
The living cheek to the cheek of clay ; 
The living cheek ! — oh ! it was not vain, 
That strife of the spirit to rend its chain ; 
She is there at rest in her place of pride, 
In death how queen-like — a glorious bride. 

Joy for the freed one ! — she might not stay 

When the crown had fallen from her life away ; 

She might not linger — a weary thing, 

A dove with no home for its broken wing, 

Thrown on the harshness of alien skies, 

That know not its own land's melodies. 

From the long heart-withering early gone ; 

She hath lived — she hath loved — her task is done ! 






Nature's Farewell. 271 



NATURE'S FAREWELL. 



" The beautiful is vanished, and returns not." 

— Coleridge's ' Wallenstein. ' 



A YOUTH rode forth from his childhood's home, 
Through the crowded paths of the world to roam ; 
And the green leaves whispered, as he passed, 
" Wherefore, thou dreamer! away so fast? 

" Knew'st thou with what thou art parting here, 

Long wouldst thou linger in doubt and fear ; 

Thy heart's light laughter, thy sunny hours, 

Thou hast left in our shades with the spring's wild flowers. 

" Under the arch by our mingling made, 
Thou and thy brother have gaily played ; 
Ye may meet again where ye roved of yore, 
But as ye have met there — oh ! never more ! " 

On rode the youth — and the boughs among, 
Thus the free birds o'er his pathway sung : 
" Wherefore so fast unto life away? 
Thou art leaving for ever thy joy in our lay ! 

" Thou may'st come to the summer woods again, 
And thy heart have no echo to greet their strain ; 
Afar from the foliage its love will dwell — 
A change must pass o'er thee. Farewell, farewell ! " 



272 Nature's Farewell. 

On rode the youth — and the founts and streams 
Thus mingled a voice with his joyous dreams : 
" We have been thy playmates through many a day, 
Wherefore thus leave us ? — oh ! yet delay ! 

" Listen but once to the sound of our mirth ! 
For thee 'tis a melody passing from earth ; 
Never again wilt thou find in its flow 
The peace it could once on thy heart bestow. 

6 ' Thou wilt visit the scenes of thy childhood's glee, 
With the breath of the world on thy spirit free ; 
Passion and sorrow its depths will have stirred, 
And the singing of waters be vainly heard. 

' ' Thou wilt bear in our gladsome laugh no part — 
What should it do for a burning heart ? 
Thou wilt bring to the banks of our freshest rill, 
Thirst which no fountain on earth may still. 

" Farewell ! — when thou comest again to thine own, 
Thou wilt miss from our music its loveliest tone ; 
Mournfully true is the tale we tell — 
Yet on, fiery dreamer ! farewell, farewell ! " 

And a something of gloom on his spirit weighed 
As he caught the last sounds of his native shade : 
But he knew not, till many a bright spell broke, 
How deep were the oracles Nature spoke ! 



Triumphant Music. 273 



TRIUMPHANT MUSIC. 

" Tacete, tacete, O suoni trionfanti I 
Risvegliate in vano V cor che non puo liberarsi" 

WHEREFORE and whither bear'st thou up my spirit, 
On eagle wings, through every plume that thrill ? 
It hath no crown of victory to inherit — 
Be still, triumphant harmony ! be still ! 

Thine are no sounds for earth, thus proudly swelling 

Into rich floods of joy. It is but pain 
To mount so high, yet find on high no dwelling, 

To sink so fast, so heavily again ! 

No sounds for earth ? Yes, to young chieftain dying 

On his own battle-field, at set of sun, 
With his freed country's banner o'er him flying, 

Well mightst thou speak of fame's high guerdon won. 

No sounds for earth ? Yes, for the martyr, leading 

Unto victorious death serenely on ; 
For patriot by his rescued altars bleeding, 

Thou hast a voice in each majestic tone. 

But speak not thus to one whose heart is beating 
Against life's narrow bound, in conflict vain ! 

For power, for joy, high hope, and rapturous greeting, 
Thou wak'st lone thirst — be hushed, exulting strain ! 

Be hushed, or breathe of grief! — of exile yearnings 

Under the willows of the stranger- shore ; 
Breathe of the soul's untold and restless burnings 

For looks, tones, footsteps, that return no more, 
s 



274 Second-Sight, 

Breathe of deep love — a lonely vigil keeping 

Through the night-hours, o'er wasted wealth to pine; 

Rich thoughts and sad, like faded rose-leaves, heaping 
In the shut heart, at once a tomb and shrine. 

Or pass as if thy spirit-notes came sighing 
From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky ; 

Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th' undying — 
Of joy no more — bewildering harmony ! 



SECOND-SIGHT. 



' Ne'er erred the prophet-heart that grief inspired, 
Though joy's illusions mock their votarist." — Matukin. 



MOURNFUL gift is mine, O friends ! 
A mournful gift is mine ! 



A 

A murmur of the soul which blends 
With the flow of song and wine. 



An eye that through the triumph's hour 

Beholds the coming woe, 
And dwells upon the faded flower 

Midst the rich summer's glow. 

Ye smile to view fair faces bloom 
Where the father's board is spread ; 

I see the stillness and the gloom 
Of a home whence all are fled. 












Second-Sight, 275 

I see the withered garlands lie 

Forsaken on the earth, 
While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly 

Through the ringing hall of mirth. 

I see the blood- red future stain 

On the warrior's gorgeous crest ; 
And the bier amidst the bridal train 

When they come with roses drest. 

I hear the still small moan of time 

Through the ivy-branches made, 
Where the palace, in its glory's prime, 

With the sunshine stands arrayed. 

The thunder of the seas I hear, 

The shriek along the wave, 
When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer 

Salute the parting brave. 

With every breeze a spirit sends 

To me some warning sign, — 
A mournful gift is mine, O friends ! 

A mournful gift is mine ! 

O prophet-heart! thy grief, thy power, 

To all deep souls belong — 
The shadow in the sunny hour, 

The wail in the mirthful song. 

Their sight is all too sadly clear — 

For them a veil is riven ; 
Their piercing thoughts repose not here, 

Their home is but in heaven. 



276 The Antique Sepulchre. 



THE ANTIQUE SEPULCHRE. 

[" Les sarcophages meme chez les anciens, ne rapellent que des idees 
guerrieres ou riantes : on voit des jeux, des danses, representes en bas- 
relief sur les tombeaux." — Corinne.] 

OEVER-joyous band 
Of revellers amidst the southern vines ! 
On the pale marble, by some gifted hand, 
Fixed in undying lines ! 

Thou, with the sculptured bowl, 
And thou, that wearest the immortal wreath, 
And thou, from whose young lip and flute the soul 

Of music seems to breathe ; 

And ye, luxuriant flowers ! 
Linking the dancers with your graceful ties, 
And clustered fruitage, born of sunny hours, 

Under Italian skies : 

Ye, that a thousand springs, 
And leafy summers with their odorous breath, 
May yet outlast, — what do ye there, bright things ! 

Mantling the place of death ? 

Of sunlight and soft air, 
And Dorian reeds, and myrtles ever green, 
Unto the heart a glowing thought ye bear ; — 

Why thus, where dust hath been ? 

Is it to show how slight 
The bound that severs festivals and tombs, 



The Antique Sepulchre. 277 

Music and silence, roses and the blight, 
Crowns and sepulchral glooms ? 

Or, when the father laid 
Haply his child's pale ashes here to sleep, 
When the friend visited the cypress shade 

Flowers o'er the dead to heap ; 

Say if the mourners sought, 
In these rich images of summer mirth, 
These wine-cups and gay wreaths, to lose the thought 

Of our last hour on earth ? 

Ye have no voice, no sound, 
Ye flutes and lyres ! to tell me what I seek : 
Silent ye are, light forms with vine-leaves crowned, 

Yet to my soul ye speak. 

Alas ! for those that lay 
Down in the dust without their hope of old! 
Backward they looked on life's rich banquet-day, 

But all beyond was cold. 

Every sweet wood-note then, 
And through the plane-trees every sunbeam's glow, 
And each glad murmur from the homes of men, 

Made it more hard to go. 

But we, when life grows dim, 
When its last melodies float o'er our way, 
Its changeful hues before us faintly swim, 

Its flitting lights decay; — 



278 The Haunted House. 

E'en though we bid farewell 
Unto the spring's blue skies and budding trees, 
Yet may we lift our hearts in hope to dwell 

Midst brighter things than these ; 

And think of deathless flowers, 
And of bright streams to glorious valleys given, 
And know the while, how little dream of ours 

Can shadow forth of heaven. 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 

" I see7ii like one who treads alone 
So7ne banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights arejled, whose garlands dead, 
And all hit me departed" — Moore. 

SEE' ST thou yon grey, gleaming hall, 
Where the deep elm-shadows fall ? 
Voices that have left the earth 

Long ago, 
Still are murmuring round its hearth, 

Soft and low : 
Ever there ; — yet one alone 
Hath the gift to hear their tone. 
Guests come thither, and depart, 
Free of step, and light of heart ; 
Children, with sweet visions bless' d, 
In the haunted chambers rest ; 
One alone unslumbering lies 
When the night hath sealed all eyes, 



The Haunted House. 279 

One quick heart and watchful ear, 
Listening for those whispers clear. 

See'st thou where the woodbine-flowers 
O'er yon low porch hang in showers ? 
Startling faces of the dead, 

Pale, yet sweet, 
One lone woman's entering tread 

There still meet ! 
Some with young, smooth foreheads fair 
Faintly shining through bright hair ; 
Some with reverend locks of snow — 
All, all buried long ago ! 
All, from under deep sea-waves, 
Or the flowers of foreign graves, 
Or the old and bannered aisle, 
Where their high tombs gleam the while ; 
Rising, wandering, floating by, 
Suddenly and silently, 
Through their earthly home and place, 
But amidst another race. 

Wherefore, unto one alone, 

Are those sounds and visions known ? 

Wherefore hath that spell of power 

Dark and dread, 
On her soul, a baleful dower, 

Thus been shed ? 
Oh ! in those deep-seeing eyes, 
No strange gift of mystery lies ! 
She is lone where once she moved 
Fair, and happy, and beloved ! 
Sunny smiles were glancing round her, 
Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her. 



280 For a Picture of 

Now those silver chords are broken, 
Those bright looks have left no token- 
Not one trace on all the earth, 
Save her memory of their mirth. 
She is lone and lingering now, 
Dreams have gathered o'er her brow, 
Midst gay songs and children's play, 
She is dwelling far away, 
Seeing what none else may see — 
Haunted still her place must be ! 



FOR A PICTURE OF ST CECILIA ATTENDED 
BY ANGELS. 

" How rich that forehead 's calm expanse I 
How bright that heaven-directed glance ! 
— Waft her to glory, winged powers I 

Ere sorrow be renewed, 
And intercourse with mortal hours 

Bring back a h?imbler mood." — Wordsworth. 

HOW can that eye, with inspiration beaming, 
Wear yet so deep a calm ? O child of song ! 
Is not the music-land a world of dreaming, 

Where forms of sad, bewildering beauty throng ? 

Hath it not sounds from voices long departed ? 

Echoes of tones that rung in childhood's ear? 
Low haunting whispers, which the weary-hearted, 

Stealing midst crowds away, have wept to hear? 



St Cecilia attended by Angels. 281 

No, not to thee ! Thy spirit, meek, yet queenly, 

On its own starry height, beyond all this, 
Floating triumphantly and yet serenely, 

Breathes no faint under-tone through songs of bliss. 

Say by what strain, through cloudless ether swelling, 
Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from the skies ? 

Bright guests ! even such as left of yore their dwelling 
For the deep cedar shades of Paradise ! 

What strain ? Oh ! not the nightingale's, when, showering 
Her own heart's life-drops on the burning lay, 

She stirs the young woods in the days of flowering, 
And pours her strength, but not her grief, away : 

And not the exile's — when, midst lonely billows, 
He wakes the Alpine notes his mother sung, 

Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows, 
Where, murmuring to the wind, his harp is hung : 

And not the pilgrim's — though his thoughts be holy, 
And sweet his ave-song when day grows dim ; 

Yet, as he journeys, pensively and slowly, 

Something of sadness floats through that low hymn. 

But thou ! — the spirit which at eve is filling 

All the hushed air and reverential sky — 
Founts, leaves, and flowers, with solemn rapture thrilling — 

This is the soul of thy rich harmony. 

This bears up high those breathings of devotion 
Wherein the currents of thy heart gush free ! 

Therefore no world of sad and vain emotion 
Is the dream-haunted music -land for thee. 



282 The Procession . 



THE PROCESSION. 



" e The peace which passeth all understanding' disclosed itself in 
her looks and movements. It lay on her cowite?iance like a steady 
wisJiadowed moonlight. " — Coleridge. 



THERE were trampling sounds of many feet, 
And music rushed through the crowded street : 
Proud music, such as tells the sky 
Of a chief returned from victory. 



There were banners to the winds unrolled, 
With haughty words on each blazoned fold ; 
High battle-names, which had rung of yore 
When lances clashed on the Syrian shore. 



Borne from their dwellings, green and lone, 

There were flowers of the woods on the pathway strown ; 

And wheels that crushed as they swept along ; — 

Oh ! what doth the violet amidst the throng ? 



I 



I saw where a bright procession passed 
The gates of a minster old and vast ; 
And a king to his crowning-place was led, 
Through a sculptured line of the warrior-dead. 

I saw, far gleaming, the long array 
Of trophies, on those high tombs that lay, 
And the coloured light, that wrapped them all, 
Rich, deep, and sad, as a royal pall. 






The Procession, 283 

But a lowlier grave soon won mine eye 
Away from th' ancestral pageantry — 
A grave by the lordly minster's gate 
Unhonoured, and yet not desolate. 

It was a dewy greensward bed, 
Meet for the rest of a peasant head ; 
But Love — oh, lovelier than all beside ! — 
That lone place guarded and glorified. 

For a gentle form stood watching there, 
Young — but how sorrowfully fair ! 
Keeping the flowers of the holy spot, 
That reckless feet might profane them not. 

Clear, pale and clear, was the tender cheek, 
And her eye, though tearful, serenely meek ; 
And I deemed, by its lifted gaze of love, 
That her sad heart's treasure was all above. 

For alone she seemed midst the throng to be, 
Like a bird of the waves far away at sea ; 
Alone, in a mourner's vest arrayed, 
And with folded hands, e'en as if she prayed. 

It faded before me, that mask of pride, 
The haughty swell of the music died ; 
Banner, and armour, and tossing plume, 
All melted away in the twilight's gloom. 

But that orphan form, with its willowy grace, 
And the speaking prayer in that pale, calm face, 
Still, still o'er my thoughts in the night-hour glide — 
Oh ! Love is lovelier than all beside ! 



284 The Summer's Call 



THE SUMMER'S CALL. 

COME away! The sunny hours 
Woo thee far to founts and bowers ! 
O'er the very waters now, 
In their play, 
Flowers are shedding beauty's glow — 

Come away ! 
Where the lily's tender gleam 
Quivers on the glancing stream, 
Come away ! 

All the air is filled with sound, 
Soft, and sultry, and profound ; 
Murmurs through the shadowy grass 

Lightly stray ; 
Faint winds whisper as they pass — 

Come away I 
Where the bee's deep music swells 
From the trembling foxglove bells, 

Come away ! 

In the skies the sapphire blue 
Now hath won its richest hue ; 
In the woods the breath of song 

Night and day 
Floats with leafy scents along — 

Come away ! 
Where the boughs with dewy gloom 
Darken each thick bed of bloom, 

Come away ! 



The Wandering Wind, 285 

In the deep heart of the rose 
Now the crimson love-hue glows ; 
Now the glow-worm's lamp by night 

Sheds a ray, 
Dreamy, starry, greenly bright — 

Come away ! 
Where the fairy cup-moss lies, 
With the wild- wood strawberries, 

Come away ! 

Now each tree, by summer crowned, 
Sheds its own rich twilight round ; 
Glancing there from sun to shade, 

Bright wings play ; 
There the deer its couch hath made — 

Come away ! 
Where the smooth leaves of the lime 
Glisten in their honey-time, 

Come away — away! 



THE WANDERING WIND. 

THE Wind, the wandering Wind 
Of the golden summer eves — 
Whence is the thrilling magic 

Of its tones among the leaves ? 
Oh ! is it from the waters, * 

Or from the long tall grass ? 
Or is it from the hollow rocks 

Through which its breathings pass ? 



286 Dirge. 

Or is it from the voices 

Of all in one combined, 
That it wins the tone of mastery ? 

The Wind, the wandering Wind ! 
No, no ! the strange, sweet accents 

That with it come and go, 
They are not from the osiers, 

Nor the fir-trees whispering low; 

They are not of the waters, 

Nor of the caverned hill : 
'Tis the human love within us 

That gives them power to thrill. 
They touch the links of memory 

Around our spirits twined, 
And we start, and weep, and tremble, 

To the Wind, the wandering Wind ! 



DIRGE. 

WHERE shall we make her grave ? 
Oh ! where the wild-flowers wave, 
In the free air ! 
Where shower and singing-bird 
Midst the young leaves are heard — 
There — lay her there ! 

Harsh was the world to her — 
Now may sleep minister 
Balm for each ill : 



Dirge. 287 

Low on sweet nature's breast 

Let the meek heart find rest, 

Deep, deep and still ! 

Murmur, glad waters ! by ; 
Faint gales ! with happy sigh, 

Come wandering o'er 
That green and mossy bed, 
Where, on a gentle head, 

Storms beat no more ! 

What though for her in vain 
Falls now the bright spring-rain, 

Plays the soft wind ? 
Yet still, from where she lies, 
Should blessed breathings rise, 

Gracious and kind. 

Therefore let song and dew 
Thence in the heart renew 

Life's venial glow ! 
And o'er that holy earth 
Scents of the violet's birth 

Still come and go ! 

Oh ! then, where wild-flowers wave 
Make ye her mossy grave, 

In the free air ! 
Where shower and singing-bird 
Midst the young leaves are heard — 

There — lay her there ! 



288 The Swan and the Skylark. 



THE SWAN AND THE SKYLARK. 



" Adieu, adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades 

Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Uj> the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley- glades" — Keats. 

" Higher still and higher 

Fro77i the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
A nd singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. " 

— Shelley. 



MIDST the long reeds that o'er a Grecian stream 
Unto the faint wind sighed melodiously, 
And where the sculpture of a broken shrine 
Sent out through shadowy grass and thick wild-flowers 
Dim alabaster gleams — a lonely swan 
Warbled his death- chant ; and a poet stood 
Listening to that strange music, as it shook 
The lilies on the wave ; and made the pines 
And all the laurels of the haunted shore 
Thrill to its passion. Oh ! the tones were sweet, 
Even painfully — as with the sweetness wrung 
From parting love ; and to the poet's thought 
This was their language. 

" Summer! I depart — 
O light and laughing summer ! fare thee well : 
No song the less through thy rich woods will swell, 

For one, one broken heart. 



The Swan and the Skylark. 289 

" And fare ye well, young flowers ! 
Ye will not mourn ! ye will shed odour still, 
And wave in glory, colouring every rill, 

Known to my youth's fresh hours. 

" And ye, bright founts ! that lie 
Far in the whispering forests, lone and deep, 
My wing no more shall stir your shadowy sleep — 

Sweet waters ! I must die. 

* ' Will ye not send one tone 
Of sorrow through the pines ? — one murmur low ? 
Shall not the green leaves from your voices know 

That I, your child, am gone ? 

' ' No ! ever glad and free, 
Ye have no sounds a tale of death to tell : 
Waves, joyous waves ! flow on, and fare ye well ! 

Ye will not mourn for me. 

" But thou, sweet boon ! too late 
Poured on my parting breath, vain gift of song ! 
Why com'st thou thus, o'ermastering, rich and strong, 

In the dark hour of fate ? 

" Only to wake the sighs 
Of echo-voices from their sparry cell ; 
Only to say — O sunshine and blue skies ! 

O life and love ! farewell." 

Thus flowed the death- chant on ; while mournfully 
Low winds and waves made answer, and the tones 
Buried in rocks along the Grecian stream — 
Rocks and dim caverns of old Prophecy — 

T 



290 The Swan and the Skylark. 

Woke to respond : and all the air was filled 
With that one sighing sound — Farewell! farewell! 

Filled with that sound ? High in the calm blue heaven 
Even then a skylark hung ; soft summer clouds 
Were floating round him, all transpierced with light, 
And midst that pearly radiance his dark wings 
Quivered with song : such free, triumphant song, 
As it tears were not, — as if breaking hearts 
Had not a place below; 2ccAthus that strain 
Spoke to the poet's ear exultingly : — ■ 

" The summer is come; she hath said Rejoice! 
The wild- woods thrill to her merry voice ; 
Her sweet breath is wandering around, on high : 
Sing, sing through the echoing sky ! 

" There is joy in the mountains ! The bright waves leap 
Like the bounding stag when he breaks from sleep ; 
Mirthfully, wildly, they flash along — 
Let the heavens ring with song ! 

" There is joy in the forests ! The bird of night 
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight ; 
But mine is the glory to sunshine given — 
Sing, sing through the echoing heaven ! 

" Mine are the wings of the soaring mom, 
Mine are the fresh gales with dayspring born : 
Only young rapture can mount so high — 
Sing, sing through the echoing sky ! " 

So those two voices met; so Joy and Death 
Mingled their accents ; and, amidst the rush 
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,— 



Music at a Deathbed. 291 

' * Oh ! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful, 
Mysterious nature ! Not in thy free range 
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus 
The dirge-note and the song of festival ; 
But in one hearty one changeful human heart — 
Ay, and within one hour of that strange world — 
Thou call'st their music forth, with all its tones, 
To startle and to pierce ! — the dying swan's, 
And the glad skylark's — triumph and despair! " 



MUSIC AT A DEATHBED. 

" Music ! why thy power employ 
Only for the sons of joy ? 
Only for tJie smiling guests 
A t natal or at nuptial feasts ? 
Rather thy lenient numbers pour 
On those whom secret griefs devotir; 
A nd with some softly-whispered air 
Smooth the brow of dumb despair I" 

— Wharton, from Euripides. 

BRING music ! stir the brooding air 
With an ethereal breath ! 
Bring sounds, my struggling soul to bear 
Up from the couch of death ! 

A voice, a flute, a dreamy lay, 

Such as the southern breeze 
Might waft, at golden fall of day, 

O'er blue, transparent seas ! 



292 Music at a Deathbed. 

Oh, no ! not such ! That lingering spell 
Would lure me back to life, 

When my weaned heart had said farewell, 
And passed the gates of strife. 

Let not a sigh of human love 
Blend with the song its tone ! 

Let no disturbing echo move 
One that must die alone ! 

But pour a solemn breathing strain 
Filled with the soul of prayer ! 

Let a life's conflict, fear, and pain, 
And trembling hope, be there. 

Deeper, yet deeper ! In my thought 
Lies more prevailing sound, 

A harmony intensely fraught 
With pleading more profound: 

A passion unto music given, 

A sweet yet piercing cry ; 
A breaking heart's appeal to heaven, 

A bright faith's victory ! 

Deeper ! Oh ! may no richer power 
Be in those notes enshrined ? 

Can all which crowds on earth's last hour 
No fuller language find ? 

Away ! and hush the feeble song, 
And let the chord be stilled ! 

Far in another land ere long 
My dream shall be fulfilled. 






A Voyager's Dream of Land. 293 



A VOYAGER'S DREAM OF LAND. 

" His very heart at hirst 
To gaze at nature in her green array, 
Upon the ship's tall side he stands possessed 
With visions prompted by intense desire; 
Fair Jields appear below, such as he left 
Far distant, such as he would die tojind: 
He seeks tJiem headlong, and is seen no more. " 

— Cowper. 

THE hollow dash of waves ! — the ceaseless roar !— 
Silence, ye billows ! — vex my soul no more. 
There's a spring in the woods by my sunny home, 
Afar from the dark sea's tossing foam ; 
Oh ! the fall of that fountain is sweet to hear, 
As a song from the shore to the sailor's ear ! 
And the sparkle which up to the sun it throws 
Through the feathery fern and the olive boughs, 
And the gleam on its path as it steals away 
Into deeper shades from the sultry day, 
And the large water-lilies that o'er its bed 
Their pearly leaves to the soft light spread, 
They haunt me ! I dream of that bright spring's flow, 
I thirst for its rills like a wounded roe ! 

Be still, thou sea-bird, with thy clanging cry ! 
My spirit sickens as thy wing sweeps by. 
Know ye my home, with the lulling sound 
Of leaves from the lime and the chestnut round ? 
Know ye it, brethren ! where bowered it lies 
Under the purple of southern skies ? 
With the streamy gold of the sun that shines 
In through the cloud of its clustering vines, 



294 A Voyager's Dream of Land. 

And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers, 

Borne from the mountain in dewy hours, 

And the firefly's glance through the darkening shades, 

Like shooting stars in the forest glades, 

And the scent of the citron at eve's dim fall — 

Speak ! have ye known, have ye felt them all ? 

The heavy-rolling surge ! the rocking mast ! — 
Hush ! give my dream's deep music way, thou blast ! 

Oh, the glad sounds ot the joyous earth ! 

The notes of the singing cicala's mirth, 

The murmurs that live in the mountain pines, 

The sighing of reeds as the day declines, 

The wings flitting home through the crimson glow 

That steeps the wood when the sun is low, 

The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill 

To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still — 

I hear them ! — around me they rise, they swell, 

They call back my spirit with Hope to dwell — 

They come with a breath from the fresh spring-time, 

And waken my youth in its hour of prime. 

The white foam dashes high — away, away ! 

Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray ! 

It is there ! — down the mountains I see the sweep 

Of the chestnut forests, the rich and deep, 

With the burden and glory of flowers that they bear 

Floating upborne on the blue summer air, 

And the light pouring through them in tender gleams, 

And the flashing forth of a thousand streams ! 

Hold me not, brethren ! I go, I go 

To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow, 



Come Home. 295 

To the depths of the woods, where the shadows rest, 
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast, 
To the rocks that resound with the water's play — 
I hear the sweet laugh of my fount — give way ! 

Give way ! — the booming surge, the tempest's roar, 
The sea-bird's wail shall vex my soul no more. 



COME HOME! 

COME home ! There is a sorrowing breath 
In music since ye went, 
And the early flower-scents wander by 

With mournful memories blent. 
The tones in every household voice 

Are grown more sad and deep ; 
And the sweet word — brother — wakes a wish 
To turn aside and weep. 

O ye beloved ! come home ! The hour 

Of many a greeting tone, 
The time of hearth-light and of song 

Returns — and ye are gone ! 
And darkly, heavily it falls 

On the forsaken room, 
Burdening the heart with tenderness, 

That deepens midst the gloom. 

Where finds it you, ye wandering ones ! 
With all your boyhood's glee 



2 9 6 The Parting of Summer. 

Untamed ? Beneath the desert's palm, 

Or on the lone mid-sea ? 
By stormy hills of battles old ? 

Or where dark rivers foam ? — 
Oh ! life is dim where ye are not — 

Back, ye beloved, come home ! 

Come with the leaves and winds of spring, 

And swift birds o'er the main ! 
Our love is grown too sorrowful — 

Bring us its youth again ! 
Bring the glad tones to music back ! 

Still, still your home is fair, 
The spirit of your sunny life 

Alone is wanting there ! 



THE PARTING OF SUMMER. 

THOU'RT bearing hence thy roses, 
Glad summer, fare thee well ! 
Thou'rt singing thy last melodies 
In every wood and dell. 

But ere the golden sunset 

Of thy latest lingering day, 
Oh ! tell me, o'er this checkered earth, 

How hast thou passed away ? 

Brightly, sweet Summer ! brightly 

Thine hours have floated by, 
To the joyous birds of the woodland boughs, 

The rangers of the sky ; 



The Parting of Sum mer. 297 

And brightly in the forests, 

To the wild deer wandering free ; 
And brightly midst the garden flowers, 

To the happy murmuring bee : 

But how to human bosoms, 

With all their hopes and fears, 
And thoughts that make them eagle-wings, 

To pierce the unborn years ? 

Sweet Summer ! to the captive 

Thou hast flown in burning dreams 
Of the woods, with all their whispering leaves, 

And the blue rejoicing streams ; — 

To the wasted and the weary 

On the bed of sickness bound, 
In swift delirious fantasies, 

That changed with every sound ; — 

To the sailor on the billows, 

In longings, wild and vain, 
For the gushing founts and breezy hills, 

And the homes of earth again ! 

And unto me, glad Summer ! 

How hast thou flown to me ? 
My chainless footstep naught hath kept 

From thy haunts of song and glee. 

Thou hast flown in wayward visions, 

In memories of the dead — 
In shadows from a troubled heart, 

O'er thy sunny pathway shed : 



298 The Farewell to the Dead. 

In brief and sudden strivings 
To fling a weight aside — 

Midst these thy melodies have ceased, 
And all thy roses died. 

But oh ! thou gentle Summer ! 

If I greet thy flowers once more, 
Bring me again the buoyancy 

Wherewith my soul should soar! 

Give me to hail thy sunshine 
With song and spirit free ; 

Or in a purer air than this 
May that next meeting be ! 



THE FAREWELL TO THE DEAD. 

[The following piece is founded on a beautiful part of the Greek 
funeral service, in which relatives and friends are invited to embrace 
the deceased (whose face is uncovered) and to bid their final adieu. — 
See Christia7i Researches in the Mediterranean.] 

" 'Tis hard to lay into the earth 
A countetiance so benign ! a form that %valked 
Bnt yesterday so stately o^er the earth !" — Wilson. 

COME near ! Ere yet the dust 
Soil the bright paleness of the settled brow, 
Look on your brother ; and embrace him now, 

In still and solemn trust ! 
Come near! — cnce more let kindred lips be pressed 
On his cold cheek ; then bear him to his rest ! 



The Farewell to the Dead. 299 

Look yet on this young face ! 
What shall the beauty, from amongst us gone, 
Leave of its image, even where most it shone, 

Gladdening its hearth and race ? 
Dim grows the semblance on man's heart impressed. 
Come near, and bear the beautiful to rest! 

Ye weep, and it is well ! 
For tears befit earth's partings ! Yesterday, 
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay, 

And sunshine seemed to dwell 
Where'er he moved — the welcome and the bless'd. 
Now gaze ! and bear the silent unto rest ! 

Look yet on him whose eye 
Meets yours no more, in sadness or in mirth. 
Was he not fair amidst the sons of earth, 

The beings born to die ? — 
But not where death has power may love be bless'd. 
Come near ! and bear ye the beloved to rest ! 

How may the mother's heart 
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again ? 
The spring's rich promise hath been given in vain — 

The lovely must depart ! 
Is he not gone, our brightest and our best ? 
Come near ! and bear the early-called to rest ! 

Look on him ! Is he laid 
To slumber from the harvest or the chase ? — 
Too still and sad the smile upon his face ; 

Yet that, even that must fade : 
Death holds not long unchanged his fairest guest. 
Come near ! and bear the mortal to his rest ! 



300 The dcfs Funeral Procession. 

His voice of mirth hath ceased 
Amidst the vineyards ! there is left no place 
For him whose dust receives your vain embrace, 

At the gay bridal-feast ! 
Earth must take earth to moulder on her breast. 
Come near ! weep o'er him ! bear him to his rest. 

Yet mourn ye not as they 
Whose spirits' light is quenched ! For him the past 
Is sealed : he may not fall, he may not cast 

His birthright's hope away ! 
All is not here of our beloved and bless' d. 
Leave ye the sleeper with his God to rest ! 



THE CID'S FUNERAL PROCESSION. 

THE Moor had beleaguered Valencia's towers, 
And lances gleamed up through her citron bowers, 
And the tents of the desert had girt her plain, 
And camels were trampling the vines of Spain ; 
For the Cid was gone to rest. 

There were men from wilds where the death-wind sweeps, 
There were spears from hills where the lion sleeps, 
There were bows from sands where the ostrich runs, 
For the shrill horn of Afric had called her sons 
To the battles of the West. 



The Cid's Funeral Procession. 301 

The midnight bell, o'er the dim seas heard, 
Like the roar of waters, the air had stirred ; 
The stars were shining o'er tower and wave, 
And the camp lay hushed as a wizard's cave; 
But the Christians woke that night. 

They reared the Cid on his barbed steed, 
Like a warrior mailed for the hour of need, 
And they fixed the sword in the cold right hand 
Which had fought so well for his father's land, 
And the shield from his neck hung bright. 

There was arming heard in Valencia's halls, 
There was vigil kept on the rampart walls ; 
Stars had not faded nor clouds turned red, 
When the knights had girded the noble dead, 
And the burial-train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, 
Was the still death-march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands, , 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands ; 
And they gave no battle-shout. 

When the first went forth, it was midnight deep, 
In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep ; 
When the last through the city's gates had gone, 
O'er tent and rampart the bright day shone, 
With a sun-burst from the sea. 

There were knights five hundred went armed before, 
And Bermudez the Cid's green standard bore ; 
To its last fair field, with the break of morn, 
Was the glorious banner in silence borne, 
On the glad wind streaming free. 



302 The CicTs Funeral Procession. 

And the Campeador came stately then, 
Like a leader circled with steel-clad men ! 
The helmet was down o'er the face of the dead, 
But his steed went proud, by a warrior led, 
For he knew that the Cid was there. 

He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword, 
And Ximena following her noble lord ; 
Her eye was solemn, her step was slow, 
But there rose not a sound of war or woe, 
Not a whisper on the air. 

The halls in Valencia were still and lone, 
The churches were empty, the masses done ; 
There was not a voice through the wide streets far, 
Nor a footfall heard in the Alcazar, 
— So the burial- train moved out. 

With a measured pace, as the pace of one, 
Was the still death-march of the host begun ; 
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands, 
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands ; 
And they gave no battle-shout. 

But the deep hills pealed with a cry ere long, 
When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng ! 
— With a sudden flash of the lance and spear, 
And a charge of the war-stead in full career, 
It was Alvar Fanez came ! 

He that was wrapt with no funeral shroud, 
Had passed before like a threatening cloud ! 
And the storm rushed down on the tented plain, 
And the Archer-Queen, with her bands, lay slain ; 
For the Cid upheld his fame. 



The Cid* s Funeral Procession. 303 

Then a terror fell on the King Bucar, 
And the Libyan kings who had joined his war ; 
And their hearts grew heavy, and died away, 
And their hands could not wield an assagay, 
For the dreadful things they saw ! 

For it seemed where Minaya his onset made, 
There were seventy thousand knights arrayed, 
All white as the snow on Nevada's steep, 
And they came like the foam of a roaring deep ; 
— 'Twas a sight of fear and awe ! 

And the crested form of a warrior tall, 
With a sword of fire, went before them all ; 
With a sword of fire and a banner pale, 
And a blood-red cross on his shadowy mail ; 
He rode in the battle's van ! 

There was fear in the path of his dim white horse, 
There was death in the giant warrior's course ! 
Where his banner streamed with its ghostly light, 
Where his sword blazed out, there was hurrying flight — 
For it seemed not the sword of man ! 

The field and the river grew darkly red, 
As the kings and leaders of Afric fled ; 
There was work for the men of the Cid that day ! 
— They were weary at eve, when they ceased to slay, 
As reapers whose task is done ! 

The kings and the leaders of Afric fled ! 
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread ; 
But the sea had its share of the Paynim slain, 
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain. 
— So the Cid to his grave passed on ! 



304 The Two Homes. 



THE TWO HOMES. 

" Oh, if the soul immortal be, 
Is not its love i7iimortal too ? " 

SEE' ST thou my home? 'Tis where yon woods are 
waving, 
In their dark richness, to the summer air, 
Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving, 
Leads down the hills a vein of light, — 'Tis there! 

Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies gleaming, 
Fringed with the violet, coloured with the skies ! 
My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer dreaming, 
Under young leaves that shook with melodies. 

My home ! The spirit of its love is breathing 
In eveiy wind that blows across my track ; 
From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing, 
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back. 

There am I loved — there prayed for — there my mother 
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye ; 
There my young sisters watch to greet their brother — 
Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly. 

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending, 
All the home-voices meet at day's decline ; 
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending, 
There laughs my home — sad stranger ! where is thine ? 

Ask'st thou of mine? In solemn peace 'tis lying, 
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away ; 



The Spirit 's Mysteries. 305 

r Tis where /, too, am loved with love undying, 
And fond hearts wait my step — But where are they ? 

Ask where the earth's departed have their dwelling; 
Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air ! 
I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling 
My lonely heart that love unchanged is there. 

And what is home, and where, but with the loving ? 

Happy thou art, that so canst gaze on thine ! 

My spirit feels but, in its weary roving, 

That with the dead, wherever they be, is mine. 

Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother ! 
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene ! 
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother, 
I well believe — but dark seas roll between. 



THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES. 

" And slight, withal, may be tJie things which bring 
Back on the lie art tJie weight which it would fling 

Aside for ever ; — it may be a sound — 
A tone 0/ music — summer s breath, or sprvig — 
A Jlower — a leaf—tJie ocean — which may wound — 
Striking tU electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound." 

— Childe Harold. 

THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken 
Vague yearnings, like the sailors for the shore, 
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken 
From some bright former state, our own no more ; 
u 



I o ' The Sp 5 dents- 

Is not this all a mystery ? Who shall say 

race are those thoughts, and whither tends their w 

The sudden images of vanished things, 
That o'er the spirit flash, we know not wi 

Tones from some broken harp's deserted str 
Warm sunset hues of summers long g 

A ripplir. he dashing of an o: 

Dwer sent floating past our parents* door ; 

A word — scarce noted in its hour perchance, 

back returning with a plaintive t-: 
A smile — a sunny or a mournful glance, 

Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown ; 
not these .vhen to life they start, 

And press vain tears in gushes from the hei 

And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, 

Calling up shrouded faces from the dead, 
And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams, 

ects brigr. pread ; 

And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear — 
These are nigh: all make them clear : 

And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, 

That ofttimes whispers to the haunted bre: 
In a low tone which naught can drown or still, 

md melodies a secret gz. 
Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall ? 
Why shakes the spirit thus ? all ! 

n -..:-!-:". ;•■ " ; ::'.' ~ — '■'■-': y:-z\\ ;~;r. _".- r.rir."-: 

I know it not ; 
: it may be, that nearer than we think 
Are those whom death has parted from our lot ! 



To t tain \V: 

Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are ma 
alk humbly on, but undismayed ! 

Humbly — for know' . ain to feel 

amidst these marvels of the r. 
Vet undismayed — for do they not n 

Tir immortal being with our dust entwined ?- 
So let us deem ! and e'en the tears they 
Shall then be blest, for that high na: 



TO THE MOUNTAIN" WIN 



The '. mm, 

To roam - y ng unpeopled glens \ 

■ 

To c 

That keeps the raren quiet in his nest, 
Be as a presence or a mstisn — One 
Among the many tJu — I th. 

MOUNTAIN - b, whither U me? 

would my steps pun 
Chains of care to lower earth enthrall me, 
jrefore thus my weary spirit woo? 

Oh ! the strife of this divided being ! 

Is there peace where ye are born on high ? 
Could we soar to your proud eyries fleeing, 

In our hearts would haunting memo: - 



308 To the Mountain Winds. 

Those wild places are not as a dwelling 

Whence the footsteps of the loved are gone ! 

Never from those rocky halls came swelling 
Voice of kindness in familiar tone ! 

Surely music of oblivion sweepeth 

In the pathway of your wanderings free ; 

And the torrent, wildly as it leapeth, 
Sings of no lost home amidst its glee. 

There the rushing of the falcon's pinion 
Is not from some hidden pang to fly ; 

All things breathe of power and stern dominion- 
Not of hearts that in vain yearnings die. 

Mountain winds ! oh ! is it, is it only 

Where man's trace hath been that so we pine ? 

Bear me up, to grow in thought less lonely, 
Even at nature's deepest, loneliest shrine ! 

Wild, and mighty, and mysterious singers ! 

At whose tone my heart within me burns ; 
Bear me where the last red sunbeam lingers, 

Where the waters have their secret urns ! 

There to commune with a loftier spirit 
Than the troubling shadows of regret ; 

There the wings of freedom to inherit, 

Where the enduring and the winged are met. 

Hush, proud voices ! gentle be your falling ! 

Woman's lot thus chainless may not be; 
Hush ! the heart your trumpet-sounds are calling, 

Darkly still may grow — but never free ! 



The Lonely Bird. 309 



THE LONELY BIRD. 

FROM a ruin thou art singing, 
O lonely, lonely bird ! 
The soft blue air is ringing, 

By thy summer music stirred. 
But all is dark and cold beneath, 

Where harps no more are heard : 
Whence win'st thou that exulting breath, 
O lonely, lonely bird ? 

Thy songs flow richly swelling 

To a triumph of glad sounds, 
As from its cavern-dwelling 

A stream in glory bounds ! 
Though the castle-echoes catch no tone 

Of human step or word, 
Though the fires be quenched and the feasting done, 

O lonely, lonely bird ! 

How can that flood of gladness 

Rush through thy fiery lay, 
From the haunted place of sadness, 

From the bosom of decay — 
W T hile the dirge-notes in the breeze's moan, 

Through the ivy garlands heard, 
Come blent with thy rejoicing tone, 

O lonely, lonely bird ? 

There's many a heart, wild singer ! 
Like thy forsaken tower, 



3 1 o Fair Helen of KirkcoiineL 

Where joy no more may linger, 
Where Love hath left his bower : 

And there's many a spirit e'en like thee, 
To mirth as lightly stirred, 

Though it soar from ruins in its glee, 
O lonely, lonely bird ! 



FAIR HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL. 



[" Fair Helen of Kirkconnel," as she is called in the Scottish Min- 
strelsy, throwing herself between her betrothed lover and a rival by 
whom his life was assailed, received a mortal wound, and died in the 
arms of the former. ] 



HOLD me upon thy faithful heart, 
Keep back my flitting breath ; 
'Tis early, early to depart, 
Beloved ! — yet this is death ! 

Look on me still — let that kind eye 

Be the last light I see ! 
Oh ! sad it is in spring to die, 

But yet I die for thee ! 

For thee, my own ! — thy stately head 

Was never thus to bow : 
Give tears when with me love hath fled, 

True love, thou know'st it now ! 



Old Norway. 311 

Oh, the free streams looked bright, where'er 

We in our gladness roved ; 
And the blue skies were very fair, 

O friend, because we loved. 



Farewell ! — I bless thee — live thou on 
When this young heart is low ! 

Surely my blood thy life hath won — 
Clasp me once more — I go ! 



OLD NORWAY. 



A MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG. 

ARISE ! Old Norway sends the word 
Of battle on the blast ; 
Her voice the forest pines hath stirred, 

As if a storm went past ; 
Her thousand hills the call have heard, 
And forth their fire-flags cast. 

Arm, arm, free hunters ! for the chase, 

The kingly chase of foes ! 
'Tis not the bear or wild wolf's race 

Whose trampling shakes the snows : 
Arm, arm ! 'tis on a nobler trace 

The northern spearman goes. 



312 



Night-blowing Flowers. 

Our hills have dark and strong defiles, 

With many an icy bed ; 
Heap there the rocks for funeral-piles 

Above the invader's head ! 
Or let the seas, that guard our isles, 

Give burial to his dead ! 



NIGHT-BLOWING FLOWERS. 



CHILDREN of night ! unfolding, meekly, slowly, 
To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, 
When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy, 
And glow-worm light is in the forest-bowers ; 
To solemn things and deep, 
To spirit-haunted sleep, 
To thoughts, all purified 
From earth, ye seem allied ! 
O dedicated flowers ! 



Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, 
Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined ; 
Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, 
Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind. 

— So doth love's dreaming heart 

Dwell from the throng apart, 

And but to shades disclose 

The inmost thought, which glows 
With its pure life entwined. 



The Traveller at the Source of the Nile. 313 

Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices, 
To no triumphant song your petals thrill, 
But send forth odours with the faint, soft voices 
Rising from hidden streams, when all is still. 

— So doth lone prayer arise, 

Mingling with secret sighs, 

When grief unfolds, like you, 

Her breast, for heavenly dew 
In silent hours to fill. 



THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF 
THE NILE. 

IN sunset's light, o'er Afric thrown, 
A wanderer proudly stood 
Beside the well-spring, deep and lone, 

Of Egypt's awful flood — 
The cradle of that mighty birth, 
So long a hidden thing to earth ! 

He heard its life's first murmuring sound, 

A low mysterious tone — 
A music sought, but never found 

By kings and warriors gone. 
He listened — and his heart beat high : 
That was the song of victory ! 

The rapture of a conqueror's mood 
Rushed burning through his frame, — 



314 The Traveller at the Source of the Nile. 

The depths of that green solitude 

Its torrents could not tame ; 
Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile, 
Round those far fountains of the Nile. 



Night came with stars. Across his soul 

There swept a sudden change : 
E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal, 

A shadow dark and strange 
Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall 
O'er triumph's hour — And is this all ? 

No more than this ! What seemed it now 

First by that spring to stand ? 
A thousand streams of lovelier flow 

Bathed his own mountain land ! 
Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track, 
Their wild, sweet voices, called him back. 

They called him back to many a glade, 

His childhood's haunt of play, 
Where brightly through the beechen shade 

Their waters glanced away; 
They called him, with their sounding waves, 
Back to his fathers' hills and graves. 

But, darkly mingling with the thought 

Of each familiar scene, 
Rose up a fearful vision, fraught 

With all that lay between — 
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom, 
The whirling sands, the red simoom ! 



The Effigies. 315 

Where was the glow of power and pride ? 

The spirit born to roam ? 
His altered heart within him died 

With yearnings for his home ! 
All vainly struggling to repress 
That gush of painful tenderness. 

lie wept ! The stars of Afric's heaven 

Beheld his bursting tears, 
E'en on that spot where fate had given 

The meed of toiling years ! — 
O Happiness ! how far we flee 
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee ! 



THE EFFIGIES. 

" Der rasche Kamfif verewigt eine7i Mann : 
Erfalle gleich, so preiset ihn das Lied. 
A llein die Thranen, die tme?idlichen 
Der uberbliebnen, der verlass'nen Fran, 
Zahlt keine Nackwelt." — Goethe. 

WARRIOR ! whose image on thy tomb, 
With shield and crested head, 
Sleeps proudly in the purple gloom 

By the stained window shed ; 
The records of thy name and race 

Have faded from the stone, 
Yet, through a cloud of years, I trace 
What thou hast been and done. 



3 1 6 The Effigies. 

A banner, from its flashing spear, 

Flung out o'er many a fight; 
A war-cry ringing far and clear, 

And strong to turn the flight ; 
An arm that bravely bore the lance 

On for the holy shrine ; 
A haughty heart and a kingly glance — 

Chief! were not these things thine ? 

A lofty place where leaders sate 

Around the council-board ; 
In festive halls a chair of state 

When the blood-red wine was poured ; 
A name that drew a prouder tone 

From herald, harp, and bard : 
Surely these things were all thine own — 

So hadst thou thy reward. 

Woman ! whose sculptured form at rest 

By the armed knight is laid, 
With meek hands folded o'er a breast 

In matron robes arrayed ; 
What was thy tale ? — O gentle mate 

Of him, the bold and free, 
Bound unto his victorious fate, 

What bard hath sung of thee ? 

He wooed a bright and burning star — 

Thine was the void, the gloom, 
The straining eye that followed far 

His fast-receding plume ; 
The heart-sick listening while his steed 

Sent echoes on the breeze ; 
The pang — but when did Fame take heed 

Of griefs obscure as these ? 



Parting Words. 317 

Thy silent and secluded hours 

Through many a lonely day 
While bending o'er thy broidered flowers, 

With spirits far away ; 
Thy weeping midnight prayers for him 

Who fought on Syrian plains, 
Thy watchings till the torch grew dim — 

These fill no minstrel strains. 

A still, sad life was thine ! — long years 

With tasks unguerdoned fraught — 
Deep, quiet love, submissive tears, 

Vigils of anxious thought ; 
Prayer at the cross in fervour poured, 

Alms to the pilgrim given — 
Oh ! happy, happier than thy lord, 

In that lone path to heaven ! 



PARTING WORDS. 

" One struggle more, and I am free." — Byron. 

LEAVE me ! oh, leave me ! Unto all below 
Thy presence binds me with too deep a spell; 
Thou makest those mortal regions, whence I go, 
Too mighty in their loveliness. Farewell, 
That I may part in peace ! 

Leave me ! — thy footstep, with its lightest sound, 
The very shadow of thy waving hair, 



318 Parting Words. 

Wakes in my soul a feeling too profound, 
Too strong for aught that loves and dies, to bear — 
Oh ! bid the conflict cease ! 



I hear thy whisper — and the warm tears gush 
Into mine eyes, the quick pulse thrills my heart ; 
Thou bid'st the peace, the reverential hush, 
The still submission, from my thoughts depart : 
Dear one ! this must not be. 

The past looks on me from thy mournful eye, 
The beauty of our free and vernal days ; 
Our communings with sea, and hill, and sky — 
Oh ! take that bright world from my spirit's gaze 
Thou art all earth to me ! 

Shut out the sunshine from my dying room, 
The jasmine's breath, the murmur of the bee ; 
Let not the joy of bird-notes pierce the gloom ! 
They speak of love, of summer, and of thee, 

Too much — and death is here ! 

Doth our own spring make happy music now, 
From the old beech-roots flashing into day ? 
Are the pure lilies imaged in its flow ? 
Alas ! vain thoughts ! that fondly thus can stray 
From the dread hour so near ! 

If I could but draw courage from the light 
Of thy clear eye, that ever shone to bless ! 
— Not now ! 'twill not be now ! — my aching sight, 
Drinks from that fount a flood of tenderness, 
Bearing all strength away ! 



The Image in the Heart. 319 

Leave me ! — thou com'st between my heart and Heaven ; 
I would be still, in voiceless prayer to die ! — 
Why must our souls thus love, and then be riven ? 
Return ! thy parting wakes mine agony ! 
Oh, yet awhile delay ! 



THE IMAGE IN THE HEART. 

m/\ %? TV ^V 

" True, indeed, it is, 
That they whom death has hidden from otir sight, 
Are worthiest of the mind's regard; with the7n 
TJte future cannot contradict the past — 
Mortality's last exercise and proof 
Is undergone. " — Wordsworth. 

" The love where death hath set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow.'" — Byron. 

I CALL thee bless' d ! — though now the voice be fled 
Which to thy soul brought dayspring with its tone, 
And o'er the gentle eyes though dust be spread, 
Eyes that ne'er looked on thine but light was thrown 
Far through thy breast : 

And though the music of thy life be broken, 
Or changed in every chord since he is gone — 
Feeling all this, even yet, by many a token, 
O thou, the deeply, but the brightly lone ! 
I call thee bless'd ! 



320 The Image in the Heart. 

For in thy heart there is a holy spot, 
As mid the waste an isle of fount and palm, 
For ever green ! — the world's breath enters not, 
The passion-tempests may not break its calm ! 
'Tis thine, all thine ! 

Thither, in trust unbaffled, may'st thou turn 
From bitter words, cold greetings, heartless eyes, 
Quenching thy soul's thirst at the hidden urn 
That, filled with waters of sweet memory, lies 
In its own shrine. 

Thou hast thy home! — there is no power in change 
To reach that temple of the past ; no sway, 
In all time brings of sudden, dark, or strange, 
To sweep the still transparent peace away 
From its hushed air ! 

And oh ! that glorious image of the dead ! 
Sole thing whereon a deathless love may rest, 
And in deep faith and dreamy worship shed 
Its high gifts fearlessly ! I call thee bless' d, 
If only there. 

Bless'd, for the beautiful within thee dwelling, 
Never to fade ! — a refuge from distrust, 
A spring of purer life, still freshly welling, 
To clothe the barrenness of earthly dust 
With flowers divine. 

And thou hast been beloved ! — it is no dream, 
No false mirage for thee, the fervent love, 
The rainbow still unreached, the ideal gleam, 
That ever seems before, beyond, above, 
Far off to shine. 



Corinne at the Capitol. 32] 

But thou, from all the daughters of the earth 
Singled and marked, hast know?z its home and place ; 
And the high memory of its holy worth 
To this our life a glory and a grace 
For thee hath given. 

And art thou not still fondly, truly loved ? 
Thou art ! — the love his spirit bore away 
Was not for death ! — a treasure but removed, 
A bright bird parted for a clearer day, — 
Thine still in heaven ! 



CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL. 

" Lesfemmes doivent penser qu HI est dans cette carriere Men pen de 
wrte qui puissent valsir la phis obscure vie d'une femme aimee et 
Tune mere heureuse" — Madame de Stael. 

DAUGHTER of th' Italian heaven ! 
Thou to whom its fires are given, 
Joyously thy car hath rolled 
Where the conqueror's passed of old ; 
And the festal sun that shone 
O'er three hundred triumphs gone, 
Makes thy day of glory bright 
With a shower of golden light. 

Now thou tread'st th' ascending road 
Freedom's foot so proudly trode ; 
While, from tombs of heroes borne, 
From the dust of empire shorn, 
x 



322 Corinne at the Capitol. 

Flowers upon thy graceful head, 

Chaplets of all hues, are shed, 

In a soft and rosy rain, 

Touched with many a gem-like stain. 

Thou hast gained the summit now ! 
Music hails thee from below ; 
Music, whose rich notes might stir 
Ashes of the sepulchre ; 
Shaking with victorious notes 
All the bright air as it floats. 
Well may woman's heart beat high 
Unto that proud harmony ! 

Now afar it rolls — it dies — 
And thy voice is heard to rise 
With a low and lovely tone, 
In its thrilling power alone; 
And thy lyre's deep silvery string, 
Touched as by a breeze's wing, 
Murmurs tremblingly at first, 
Ere the tide of rapture burst. 

All the spirit of thy sky 
Now hath lit thy large dark eye, 
And thy cheek a flush hath caught 
From the joy of kindled thought ; 
And the burning words of song 
From thy lip flow fast and strong, 
With a rushing stream's delight 
In the freedom of its might. 

Radiant daughter of the sun ! 
Now thy living wreath is won. 



The Parting Ship. 323 

Crowned of Rome ! — oh ! art thou not 
Happy in that glorious lot ? — 
Happier, happier far than thou, 
With the laurel on thy brow, 
She that makes the humblest hearth 
Lovely but to one on earth ! 



THE PARTING SHIP. 

" A glittering ship, that hath the plain 
Of ocean for her own domain" — Wordsworth. 

GO, in thy glory, o'er the ancient sea, 
Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell ; 
Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be, 
Fare thee well, bark ! farewell ! 

Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft, 

The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and song ; 

Who now of storms hath dream or memory left ? 
And yet the deep is strong ! 

But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles 
• Of summer tremble on the water's breast ! 
Thou shalt be greeted by a thousand isles, 
In lone, wild beauty drest. 

To thee a welcome breathing o'er the tide, 
The genii groves of Araby shall pour ; 

Waves that enfold the pearl shall bathe thy side, 
On the old Indian shore. 



324 The Parting Ship. 

Oft shall the shadow of the palm-tree lie 

O'er glassy bays wherein thy sails are furled, 

And its leaves whisper, as the winds sweep by, 
Tales of the elder world. 

Oft shall the burning stars of southern skies, 
On the mid-ocean see thee chained in sleep, 

A lonely home for human thoughts and ties, 
Between the heavens and deep. 

Blue seas that roll on gorgeous coasts renowned, 
By night shall sparkle where thy prow makes way ; 

Strange creatures of th' abyss that none may sound, 
In thy broad wake shall play. 

From hills unknown, in mingled joy and fear, 

Free dusky tribes shall pour, thy flag to mark ; — 

Blessings go with thee on thy lone career ! 
Hail, and farewell, thou bark ! 

A long farewell ! Thou wilt not bring us back 
All whom thou bearest far from home and hearth : 

Many are thine, whose steps no more shall track 
Their own sweet native earth ! 

Some wilt thou leave beneath the plantain's shade, 
Where through the foliage Indian suns look bright ; 

Some in the snows of wintry regions laid, 
By the cold northern light. 

And some, far down below the sounding wave, 

Still shall they lie, though tempests o'er them sweep ; 

Never may flower be strewn above their grave, 
Never may sister weep ! 






The Beings of the Mind. 325 

And thou, the billow's queen — even thy proud form 
On our glad sight no more perchance may swell ; 

Yet God alike is in the calm and storm — 
Fare thee well, bark ! farewell ! 



THE BEINGS OF THE MIND. 

" The beings of the mi7id are not of clay ; 
Esse7itially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray, 
And more beloved existence ; that which Fate 
Prohibits to dtdl life, in this otir state 
Ofiiiortal bondage." — Byron. 

COME to me with your triumphs and your woes, 
Ye forms, to life by glorious poets brought ! 
I sit alone with flowers, and vernal boughs, 

In the deep shadow of a voiceless thought ; 
Midst the glad music of the spring alone, 
And sorrowful for visions that are gone ! 

Come to me ! make your thrilling whispers heard, 
Ye, by those masters of the soul endowed 

With life, and love, and many a burning word, 
That bursts from grief like lightning from a cloud, 

And smites the heart, till all its chords reply, 

As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by. 

Come to me ! visit my dim haunt ! — the sound 
Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath ; 



326 The Beings of the Mind. 

The stock-dove's note above ; and all around, 

The poesy that with the violet's breath 
Floats through the air, in rich and sudden streams, 
Mingling, like music, with the soul's deep dreams. 

Friends, friends ! — for such to my lone heart ye are- 
Unchanging ones ! from whose immortal eyes 

The glory melts not as a waning star, 

And the sweet kindness never, never dies ; 

Bright children of the bard ! o'er this green dell 

Pass once again, and light it with your spell ! 

Imogen ! fair Fidele ! meekly blending, 
In patient grief, " a smiling with a sigh;" 

And thou, Cordelia ! faithful daughter, tending 
That sire, an outcast to the bitter sky ; 

Thou of the soft low voice ! — thou art not gone ! 

Still breathes for me its faint and flute-like tone. 

And come to me ! — sing me thy willow-strain, 
Sweet Desdemona ! with the sad surprise 

In thy beseeching glance, where still, though vain, 
Undimmed, unquenchable affection lies ; 

Come, bowing thy young head to wrong and scorn, 

As a frail hyacinth by showers o'erborne. 

And thou, too, fair Ophelia ! flowers are here, 
That well might win thy footstep to the spot — 

Pale cowslips, meet for maiden's early bier, 

And pansies for sad thoughts, — but needed not ! 

Come with thy wreaths, and all the love and light 

In that wild eye still tremulously bright. 

And Juliet, vision of the south ! enshrining 
All gifts that unto its rich heaven belong ; 



The Requiem of Genius. 327 

The glow, the sweetness, in its rose combining, 

The soul its nightingales pour forth in song, 
Thou, making death deep joy ! — but couldst thou die ? 
No ! — thy young love hath immortality ! 

From earth's bright faces fades the light of morn, 
From earth's glad voices drops the joyous tone ; 

But ye, the children of the soul, were born 
Deathless, and for undying love alone ; 

And, O ye beautiful ! 'tis well, how well, 

In the soul's world, with you, where change is not, to dwell ! 



THE REQUIEM OF GENIUS. 

" Les J>oetes, dont V imagination tient la ptiissance d' aimer et de 
souffrir, ne sont-ils Jjks les bannis d'une autre region ?" 

Madame de Stael — ' De V Allemagne * 

NO tears for thee ! — though light be from us gone 
With thy soul's radiance, bright, yet restless one ! 
No tears for thee ! 
They that have loved an exile, must not mourn 
To see him parting for his native bourne 
O'er the dark sea. 

All the high music of thy spirit here 
Breathed but the language of another sphere, 

Unechoed round ; 
And strange, though sweet, as midst our weeping skies 
Some half-remembered strain of Paradise 

Might sadly sound ! 



328 The Requiem of Genius. 

Hast thou been answered ? — thou, that from the night, 
And from the voices of the tempest's might, 

And from the past, 
Wert seeking still some oracle's reply, 
To pour the secrets of man's destiny 

Forth on the blast ! 

Hast thou been answered ? — thou, that through the gloom, 
And shadow, and stern silence of the tomb, 

A cry didst send, 
So passionate and deep ? — to pierce, to move, 
To win back token of unburied love 

From buried friend ! 

And hast thou found where living waters burst ? 
Thou that didst pine amidst us in the thirst 

Of fever-dreams ! 
Are the true fountains thine for evermore ? 
O lured so long by shining mists that wore 

The light of streams ! 

Speak ! is it well with thee ? We call, as thou, 
With thy lit eye, deep voice, and kindled brow, 

Wert wont to call 
On the departed ! Art thou bless'd and free ? 
— Alas ! the lips earth covers, even to thee 

Were silent all ! 

Yet shall our hope rise fanned by quenchless faith, 
As a flame, fostered by some warm wind's breath, 

In light upsprings : 
Freed soul of song ! yes, thou hast found the sought ; 
Borne to thy home of beauty and of thought, 

On mornings wings. 



The Subterranean Stream. 329 

And we will dream it is thy joy we hear, 
When life's young music, ringing far and clear, 

O'erflows the sky. 
No tears for thee I the lingering gloom is ours — 
Thou art for converse with all glorious powers, 

Never to die ! 



THE SUBTERRANEAN STREAM. 

" Thou stream. 
Whose sozirce is inaccessibly profound, 
Whither do thy mysterious waters te?id ? 
— Thou imagest my life." 

DARKLY thou glidest onward, 
Thou deep and hidden wave ! 
The laughing sunshine hath not looked 
Into thy secret cave. 

Thy current makes no music — 

A hollow sound we hear, 
A muffled voice of mystery, 

And know that thou art near. 

No brighter line of verdure 

Follows thy lonely way ; 
No fairy moss, or lily's cup, 

Is freshened by thy play. 

The halcyon doth not seek thee, 

Her glorious wings to lave ; 
Thou know'st no tint of the summer sky, 

Thou dark and hidden wave ! 



3$o The Subterranean Stream. 

Yet once will day behold thee, 

When to the mighty sea, 
Fresh bursting from their caverned veins, 

Leap thy lone waters free. 

There wilt thou greet the sunshine 
For a moment, and be lost, 

With all thy melancholy sounds, 
In the ocean's billowy host. 

Oh ! art thou not, dark river ! 

Like the fearful thoughts untold 
Which haply, in the hush of night, 

O'er many a soul have rolled ? 

Those earth-born strange misgivings — 
Who hath not felt their power ? 

Yet who hath breathed them to his friend, 
E'en in his fondest hour? 

They hold no heart-communion, 
They find no voice in song, 

They dimly follow far from earth 
The grave's departed throng. 

Wild is their course and lonely, 
And fruitless in man's breast ; 

They come and go, and leave no trace 
Of their mysterious guest. 

Yet surely must their wanderings 
At length be like thy wave ; 

Their shadows as thy waters, lost 
In one bright flood of day ! 



Tasso and his Sister. $-$} 



TASSO AND HIS SISTER 

" Devant vous est Sorre?ite ; la demeuroit la sceur de Tasse, qtiand 
il vint en pelerin demander a cette obscure amie wi asyle contre I 'in- 
justice des princes. — Ses longues douletcrs avaient presque egare sa 
raison; il ne lui restoit plus que son genie." — Corinne. 

SHE sat, where on each wind that sighed 
The citron's breath went by, 
While the red gold of eventide 

Burned in the Italian sky. 
Her bower was one where daylight's close 

Full oft sweet laughter found, 
As thence the voice of childhood rose 
To the high vineyards round. 

But still and thoughtful at her knee 

Her children stood that hour, 
Their bursts of song and dancing glee 

Hushed as by words of power. 
With bright fixed wondering eyes, that gazed 

Up to their mother's face, 
With brows through parted ringlets raised, 

They stood in silent grace. 

While she — yet something o'er her look 

Of mournfulness was spread — 
Forth from a poet's magic book 

The glorious numbers read ; 
The proud undying lay, which poured 

Its light on evil years ; 
His of the gifted pen and sword, 

The triumph, and the tears. 



332 Tasso and his Sister. 

She read of fair Erminia's flight, 

Which Venice once might hear 
Sung on her glittering seas at night 

By many a gondolier : 
Of him she read, who broke the charm 

That wrapt the myrtle grove ; 
Of Godfrey's deeds, of Tancred's arm, 

That slew his Paynim love. 

Young cheeks around that bright page glowed, 

Young holy hearts were stirred ; 
And the meek tears of woman flowed 

Fast o'er each burning word. 
And sounds of breeze, and fount, and leaf, 

Came sweet each pause between, 
When a strange voice of sudden grief 

Burst on the gentle scene. 

The mother turned — a way- worn man, 

In pilgrim garb, stood nigh, 
Of stately mien, yet wild and wan, 

Of proud yet mournful eye. 
But drops which would not stay for pride 

From that dark eye gushed free, 
As, pressing his pale brow, he cried, 

" Forgotten ! e'en by thee ! 

" Am I so changed? — and yet we two 

Oft hand in hand have played ; 
This brow hath been all bathed in dew 

From wreaths which thou hast made; 
We have knelt down and said one prayer, 

And sung one vesper strain ; 
My soul is dim with clouds of care — 

Tell me those words again ! 



Let her Depart. $$$ 

ci Life hath been heavy on my head — 

I come a stricken deer, 
Bearing the heart, midst crowds that bled, 

To bleed in stillness here." 
She gazed, till thoughts that long had slept 

Shook all her thrilling frame — 
She fell upon his neck and wept, 

Murmuring her brother's name. 

Her brother's name ! — and who was he, 

The weary one, th' unknown, 
That came, the bitter world to flee, 

A stranger to his own ? 
He was the bard of gifts divine 

To sway the souls of men ; 
He of the song for Salem's shrine, 

He of the sword and pen ! 



LET HER DEPART. 

HER home is far, oh ! far away ! 
The clear light in her eyes 
Hath naught to do with earthly day — 
'Tis kindled from the skies. 
Let her depart ! 

She looks upon the things of earth, 

Even as some gentle star 
Seems gazing down on grief or mirth, 

How softly, yet how far ! 
Let her depart ! 



334 O'er the far Blue Mountains. 

Her spirit's hope — her bosom's love — 
Oh ! could they mount and fly ! 

She never sees a wandering dove, 
But for its wings to sigh. 
Let her depart ! 

She never hears a soft wind bear 

Low music on its way, 
But deems it sent from heavenly air 

For her who cannot stay. 
Let her depart ! 

Wrapt in a cloud of glorious dreams, 
She breathes and moves alone, 

Pining for those bright bowers and streams 
Where her beloved is gone. 
Let her depart ! 






O'ER THE FAR BLUE MOUNTAINS. 

O'ER the far blue mountains, 
O'er the white sea-foam, 
Come, thou long-parted one ! 
Back to thine home. 

When the bright fire shineth, 

Sad looks thy place, 
While the true heart pineth, 

Missing thy face. 



The Bird at Sea. 335 

Music is sorrowful 

Since thou art gone ; 
Sisters are mourning thee — 

Come to thine own ! 

Hark ! the home voices call 

Back to thy rest ; 
Come to thy father's hall, 

Thy mother's breast ! 

O'er the far blue mountains, 

O'er the white sea-foam, 
Come, thou long-parted one ! 

Back to thine home. 



THE BIRD AT SEA. 

BIRD of the greenwood ! 
Oh, why art thou here ? 
Leaves dance not o'er thee, 
Flowers bloom not near. 
All the sweet waters 

Far hence are at play — 
Bird of the greenwood ! 
Away, away! 

Where the mast quivers 
Thy place will not be, 

As midst the waving 
Of wild-rose and tree. 



336 Music from Shore. 

How shouldst thou battle 
With storm and with spray ? 

Bird of the greenwood ! 
Away, away ! 

Or art thou seeking 

Some brighter land, 
* Where by the south wind 

Vine leaves are fanned ? 
Midst the wild billows 

Why then delay ? 
Bird of the greenwood ! 

Away, away! 

" Chide not my lingering 

Where storms are dark ; 
A hand that hath nursed me 

Is in the bark — 
A heart that hath cherished 

Through winter's long day : 
So I turn from the greenwood, 

Away, away!" 



MUSIC FROM SHORE. 

A SOUND comes on the rising breeze, 
A sweet and lovely sound ! 
Piercing the tumult of the seas 
That wildly dash around. 



Prayer at Sea after Victory. 337 

From land, from sunny land it comes, 

From hills with murmuring trees, 
From paths by still and happy homes — 

That sweet sound on the breeze. 

Why should its faint and passing sigh 

Thus bid my quick pulse leap ? 
No part in earth's glad melody 

Is mine upon the deep. 

Yet blessing, blessing on the spot 
Whence those rich breathings flow ! 

Kind hearts, although they know me not, 
Like mine there beat and glow. 

And blessing, from the bark that roams 

O'er solitary seas, 
To those that far in happy homes 

Give sweet sounds to the breeze ! 



PRAYER AT SEA AFTER VICTORY. 

" The land shall never rue, 
So England to herself do prove but trzie." — Shakspeare. 



T 1 



^HROUGH evening's bright repose 
A voice of prayer arose, 
When the sea-fight was done : 
The sons of England knelt, 
With hearts that now could melt, 
For on the wave her battle had been won. 
Y 



338 Prayer at Sea after Victory. 

Round their tall ship, the main 
Heaved with a dark-red stain, 

Caught not from sunset's cloud; 
While with the tide swept past 
Pennon and shivered mast, 
Which to the Ocean-Queen that day had bowed. 

But free and fair on high, 
A native of the sky, 

Her streamer met the breeze ; 
It flowed o'er fearless men, 
Though, hushed and childlike then, 
Before their God they gathered on the seas. 

Oh ! did not thoughts of home 
O'er each bold spirit come, 

As from the land sweep gales ? 
In every word of prayer 
Had not some hearth a share, 
Some bower, inviolate midst England's vales ? 

Yes ! bright, green spots that lay 
In beauty far away, 

Hearing no billow's roar, 
Safer from touch of spoil, 
For that day's fiery toil, 
Rose on high hearts, that now with love gushed o'er. 

A solemn scene and dread ! 
The victors and the dead, 
The breathless burning sky ! 
„ And, passing with the race 

Of waves that keep no trace, 
The wild, brief signs of human victory ! 



A Poefs Dying Hymn, 339 

A stern, yet holy scene ! 
Billows, where strife hath been, 

Sinking to awful sleep ; 
And words, that breathe the sense 
Of God's omnipotence, 
Making a minster of that silent deep 

Borne through such hours afar, 
Thy flag hath been a star, 

Where eagle's wings ne'er flew : 
England ! the unprofaned, 
Thou of the hearths unstained, 
Oh ! to the banner and the shrine be true ! 



A POET'S DYING HYMN. 

" Be mute who will, who can. 
Yet I ivill praise thee with impassioned voice ! 
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine 
In such a temple as we now behold, 
Reared for thy presence ; therefore am I boimd 
To worship, here and every where ." — Wordsworth. 

THE blue, deep, glorious heavens ! — I lift mine eye, 
And bless thee, O my God ! that I have met 
And owned thine image in the majesty 

Of their calm temple still ! — that, never yet 
There hath thy face been shrouded from my sight 
By noontide blaze, or sweeping storm of night : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



340 A Poefs Dying Hymn. 

That now still clearer, from their pure expanse, 
I see the mercy of thine aspect shine, 

Touching death's features with a lovely glance 
Of light, serenely, solemnly divine, 

And lending to each holy star a ray 

As of kind eyes, that woo my soul away : 
I bless thee, O my God I 

That I have heard thy voice nor been afraid, 
In the earth's garden — midst the mountains old, 

And the low thrillings of the forest-shade, 
And the wild sound of waters uncontrolled — 

And upon many a desert plain and shore — 

No solitude — for there I felt thee more : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

And if thy spirit on thy child hath shed 
The gift, the vision of the unsealed eye, 

To pierce the mist o'er life's deep meanings spread, 
To reach the hidden fountain-urns that lie 

Far in man's heart — if I have kept it free 

And pure, a consecration unto thee : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

If my soul's utterance hath by thee been fraught 
With an awakening power — if thou hast made 

Like the winged seed, the breathings of my thought, 
And by the swift winds bid them be conveyed 

To lands of other lays, and there become 

Native as early melodies of home : 

I bless thee, O my God ! 

Not for the brightness of a mortal wreath, 
Not for a place midst kingly minstrels dead, 



A Poefs Dying Hymn. 341 

But that, perchance, a faint gale of thy breath, 

A still small whisper, in my song hath led 
One struggling spirit upwards to thy throne, 
Or but one hope, one prayer, — for this alone 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That I have loved — that I have known the love 
Which troubles in the soul the tearful springs, 

Yet with a colouring halo from above, 
Tinges and glorifies all earthly things, 

Whate'er its anguish or its woe may be, 

Still weaving links for intercourse with thee : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That by the passion of its deep distress, 

And by the o'erflowing of its mighty prayer, 

And by the yearning of its tenderness, 

Too full for words upon their stream to bear, 

I have been drawn still closer to thy shrine, 

Well-spring of love, the unfathomed, the divine, 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

That hope hath ne'er my heart or song forsaken, 

High hope, which even from mysteiy, doubt, or dread, 

Calmly, rejoicingly, the things hath taken 
Whereby its torchlight for the race was fed : 

That passing storms have only fanned the fire 

Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire, 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Now art thou calling me in every gale, 

Each sound and token of the dying day ; 
Thou leav'st me not — though early life grows pale, 

I am not darkly sinking to decay ; 



342 A Poet's Dying Hymn. 

But, hour by hour, my soul's dissolving shroud 
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud. 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

And if this earth, with all its coral streams, 

And crowning woods, and soft or solemn skies, 

And mountain sanctuaries for poet's dreams, 
Be lovely still in my departing eyes — 

'Tis not that fondly I would linger here, 

But that thy footprints on its dust appear : 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

And that the tender shadowing I behold, 
The tracery veining every leaf and flower, 

Of glories cast in more consummate mould, 
No longer vassals to the changeful hour ; 

That life's last roses to my thoughts can bring 

Rich visions of imperishable spring : 

I bless thee,- O my God ! 

Yes ! the young, vernal voices in the skies 

Woo me not back, but, wandering past mine ear, 

Seem heralds of th' eternal melodies, 

The spirit-music, imperturbed and clear — 

The full of soul, yet passionate no more : 

Let me^ too, joining those pure strains, adore ! 
I bless thee, O my God ! 

Nowaid, sustain me still. To thee I come — 
Make thou my dwelling where thy children are ! 

And for the hope of that immortal home, 

And for thy Son, the bright and morning star, 

The sufferer and the victor-king of death, 

I bless thee with my glad song's dying breath ! 
I bless thee, O my God ! 



Song of the Battle of Morgarten, 343 



SONG OF THE BATTLE OF MORGARTEN. 

[" In the year 1315, Switzerland was invaded by Duke Leopold of 
Austria, with a formidable army. It is well attested that this prince 
repeatedly declared he ' would trample the audacious rustics under his 
feet ; ' and that he had procured a large stock of cordage, for the pur- 
pose of binding their chiefs, and putting them to death. 

" The 15th October 1315 dawned. The sun darted its first rays on 
the shields and armour of the advancing host ; and this being the first 
army ever known to have attempted the frontiers of the cantons, the 
Swiss viewed its long line with various emotions. Montfort de Tettnang 
led the cavalry into the narrow pass, and soon filled the whole space 
between the mountain (Mount Sattel) and the lake. The fifty men on 
the eminence (above Morgarten) raised a sudden shout, and rolled down 
heaps of rocks and stones among the crowded ranks. The confederates 
on the mountain, perceiving the impression made by this attack, rushed 
down in close array, and fell upon the flank of the disordered column. 
With massy clubs they dashed in pieces the armour of the enemy, and 
dealt their blows and thrusts with long pikes. The narrowness of the 
defile admitted of no evolutions, and a slight frost having injured the 
road, the horses were impeded in all their motions ; many leaped into 
the lake ; all were startled ; and at last the whole column gave way, 
and fell suddenly back on the infantry ; and these last, as the nature of 
the country did not allow them to open their files, were run over by the 
fugitives, and many of them trampled to death. A general rout en- 
sued, and Duke Leopold was with much difficulty rescued by a peasant, 
who led him to Winterthur, where the historian of the times saw him 
arrive in the evening, pale, sullen, and dismayed." — Planta's History 
of the Helvetic Confederacy.] 

THE wine-month shone in its golden prime, 
And the red grapes clustering hung, 
But a deeper sound, through the Switzer's clime, 
Than the vintage music, rung — 
A sound through vaulted cave, 
A sound through echoing glen, 
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave ; 
— 'Twas the tread of steel-girt men. 



3 44 Song of the Battle of Morgarien. 

And a trumpet, pealing wild and far, 
Midst the ancient rocks was blown, 
Till the Alps replied to that voice of war 
With a thousand of their own. 

And through the forest-glooms 
Flashed helmets to the day ; 
And the winds were tossing knightly plumes, 
Like the larch-boughs in their play. 

In Hash's wilds there was gleaming steel 

As the host of the Austrian passed ; 
And the Schreckhorn's rocks, with a savage peal, 
Made mirth of his clarion's blast. 
Up midst the Righi snows 
The stormy march was heard, 
With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose, 
And the leader's gathering word. 

But a band, the noblest band of all, 

Through the rude Morgarten strait, 
With blazoned streamers and lances tall, 
Moved onwards in princely state. 
They came with heavy chains 
For the race despised so long — 
But amidst his Alp-domains, 

The herdsman's arm is strong. 

The sun was reddening the clouds of morn 

When they entered the rock-defile, 
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn 
Their bugles rang the while. 
But on the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood, 
There was stillness as of night, 

When storms at distance brood. 



Song of the Battle of Morgarten. 345 

There was stillness as of deep, dead night, 

And a pause — but not of fear, 
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might 
Of the hostile shield and spear. 

On wound those columns bright 
Between the lake and wood, 
But they looked not to the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

The pass was filled with their serried power, 

All helmed and mail-arrayed, 
And their steps had sounds like a thunder-shower 
In the rustling forest-shade. 

There were prince and crested knight, 
Hemmed in by cliff and flood, 
When a shout arose from the misty height 
Where the mountain-people stood. 

And the mighty rocks came bounding down 

Their startled foes among, 
W T ith a joyous whirl from the summit thrown — 
Oh ! the herdsman's arm is strong ! — 
They came like lauwine hurled 
From Alp to Alp in play, 
W T hen the echoes shout through the snowy world, 
And the pines are borne away. 

The fir-woods craslied on the mountain-side, 

And the Switzers rushed from high, 
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride 
Of the Austrian chivalry : 

Like hunters of the deer, 
They stormed the narrow dell ; 
And first in the shock, with Uri's spear, 
Was the arm of William Tell. 



3 46 Song of the Battle of Morgarten. 

There was tumult in the crowded strait, 

And a cry of wild dismay ; 
And many a warrior met his fate 
From a peasant's hand that day ! 
And the Empire's banner then 
From its place of waving free, 
Went down before the shepherd-men, 
The men of the Forest- Sea. 

With their pikes and massy clubs they brake 

The cuirass and the shield, 
And the war-horse dashed to the reddening lake 
From the reapers of the field ! 

The field — but not of sheaves — 
Proud crests and pennons lay, 
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch- wood leaves 
In the autumn tempest's way. 

Oh ! the sun in heaven fierce havoc viewed 

When the Austrian turned to fly, 
And the brave, in the trampling multitude, 
Had a fearful death to die ! 
And the leader of the war 
At eve unhelmed was seen, 
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar, 
And a pale and troubled mien. 

But the sons of the land which the freeman tills 

Went back from the battle toil, 
To their cabin homes midst the deep-green hills, 
All burdened with royal spoil. 

There were songs and festal fires 

On the soaring Alps that night, 

When children sprang to greet their sires 

From the wild Morgarten fight. 



Juana. 347 



JUANA. 

[Juana, mother of the Emperor Charles V., upon the death of her 
husband, Philip the Handsome of Austria, who had treated her with 
uniform neglect, had his body laid upon a bed of state, in a magnificent 
dress ; and being possessed with the idea that it would revive, watched 
it for a length of time, incessantly waiting for the moment of returning 
life.] 

It is but dust thou look'st upon. This love, 
This "wild and passionate idolatry, 
What doth it in the shadow of the grave ? 
Gather it back within thy lonely heart, 
So must it ever end: too much we give 
Unto the things that perish. 

THE night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient 
palace-room, 
And torches, as it rose and fell, waved through the gorgeous 

gloom, 
And o'er a shadowy regal couch threw fitful gleams and red, 
Where a woman with long raven hair sat watching by the 
dead. 

Pale shone the features of the dead, yet glorious still to see, 
Like a hunter or a chief struck down while his heart and 

step were free : 
No shroud he wore, no robe of death, but there majestic lay, 
Proudly and sadly glittering in royalty's array. 

But she that with the dark hair watched by the cold slum- 

berer's side, 
On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no 

pride ; 



348 Juana. 

Only her full impassioned eyes, as o'er that clay she bent, 
A wildness and a tenderness in strange resplendence blent. 

And as the swift thoughts crossed her soul, like shadows of 

a cloud, 
Amidst the silent room of death the dreamer spoke aloud : 
She spoke to him that could not hear, and cried, "Thou 

yet wilt wake, 
And learn my watchings and my tears, beloved one ! for thy 

sake. 

' ' They told me this was death, but well I knew it could 

not be ; 
Fairest and stateliest of the earth ! who spoke of death for 

thee 'i 
They would have wrapped the funeral shroud thy gallant 

form around, 
But I forbade — and there thou art, a monarch, robed and 

crowned ! 

" With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal 

beneath, 
And thy brow so proudly beautiful — who said that this was 

death ? 
Silence hath been upon thy lips, and stillness round thee 

long, 
But the hopeful spirit in my breast is all undimmed and 

strong. 

" I know thou hast not loved me yet; I am not fair like 

thee, 
The very glance of whose clear eye threw round a light of 

glee! 



Juana. 349 

A frail and drooping form is mine — a cold unsmiling cheek — 
Oh! I have but a woman's heart wherewith thy heart to 
seek. 



M But when thou wak'st, my prince, my lord! and hear'st 

how I have kept 
A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee prayed and wept — 
How in one long deep dream of thee my nights and days 

have past — 
Surely that humble patient love must win back love at last ! 

" And thou wilt smile — my own, my own, shall be the sunny 

smile, 
Which brightly fell, and joyously, on all but me erewhile ! 
No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul shall pine — 
Oh ! years of hope deferred were paid by one fond glance of 

thine ! 

" Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look when thou comest 
from the chase — 

For me, for me, in festal halls it shall kindle o'er thy face ! 

Thou'lt reck no more though beauty's gift mine aspect may 
not bless ; 

In thy kind eyes this deep, deep love shall give me love- 
liness. 

1 ' But wake ! my heart within me burns, yet once more to 

rejoice 
In the sound to which it ever leaped, the music of thy 

voice. 
Awake ! I sit in solitude, that thy first look and tone, 
And the gladness of thine opening eyes, may all be mine 

alone." 



3 5 o The Revellers. 

In the still chambers of the dust, thus poured forth day by 

day, 
The passion of that loving dream from a troubled soul 

found way, 
Until the shadows of the grave had swept o'er eveiy grace, 
Left midst the awfulness of death on the princely form and 

face. 

And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher's 

breast, 
And they bore away the royal dead with requiems to his 

rest, 
With banners and with knightly plumes all waving in the 

wind — 
But a woman's broken heart was left in its lone despair 

behind. 



THE REVELLERS. 

RING, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 
A swifter and a wilder strain ! 
They are here — the fair face and the careless heart, 

And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. 

But I. met a dimly mournful glance, 

In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; 

I heard the tone of a heavy sigh 

In a pause of the thrilling melody ! 

And it is not well that woe should breathe 

On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath ! — 

Ye that to thought or to grief belong, 

Leave, leave the hall of song ! 



The Revellers. 351 

Ring, joyous chords ! But who art thou 

With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow, 
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies 
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes ? 
Thou hast loved, fair girl ! thou hast loved too well ! 
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell; 
Thou hast poured thy heart's rich treasures forth, 
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ! 
Mourn on ! yet come thou not here the while, 
It is but a pain to see thee smile ! 
There is not a tone in our songs for thee — 
Home with thy sorrows flee ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 

But what dost thou with the revel's train ? 
A silvery voice through the soft air floats, 
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes ; 
There are bright young faces that pass thee by, 
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye ! 
Away ! there's a void in thy yearning breast, 
Thou weary man ! wilt thou here find rest ? 
Away ! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, 
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead : 
Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth- — 
Back to thy silent hearth ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring forth again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, 

And thy cup be crowned with the foaming wine, 

By the fitful burst of thy laughter loud, 

By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud, 

I know thee ! it is but the wakeful fear 

Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here ! 



352 Sabbath Sonnet 

I know thee ! — thou fearest the solemn night, 
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might ! 
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain wouldst shun, 
For it asks what the secret soul hath done ! 
And thou — there's a dark weight on thine — away ! — 
Back to thy home, and pray ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — ring out again ! 
A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 
And bring fresh wreaths ! — we will banish all 
Save the free in heart from our festive hall. 
On ! through the maze of the fleet dance, on ! — 
But where are the young and the lovely gone ? 
Where are the brows with the Red Rose crowned, 
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound ? 
And the waving locks and the flying feet, 
That still should be where the mirthful meet? — 
They are gone — they are fled — they are parted all : 
Alas ! the forsaken hall ! 



SABBATH SONNET. 

COMPOSED BY MRS HEMANS A FEW DAYS BEFORE HER 
DEATH, AND DICTATED TO HER BROTHER. 

HOW many blessed groups this hour are bending, 
Thro' England's primrose meadow-paths, their way 
Towards spire and tower midst shadowy elms ascending, 
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day ! 



Sabbath Sonnet. 353 

The halls from old heroic ages grey 
Pour their fair children forth ; and hamlets low, 
With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play, 
Send out their inmates in a happy flow, 
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread 
With them those pathways — to the feverish bed 
Of sickness bound ; yet, O my God ! I bless • 
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath-peace hath filled 
My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled 
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness ! 

7.Uh April 1835. 



INDEX. 



Affection, a Prayer of, 144 
Alcestis, the Death-Song of, 121 
Angel Visits, 63 
Angel's Greeting, the, 49 
Antique Sepulchre, the, 276 
Arabella Stuart, 1 

Battle, the Call to, 135 
Beings of the Mind, the, 325 
Bernardo del Carpio, 97 
Better Land, the, 106 
Bird at Sea, the, 335 
Birds of Passage, 167 
Boon of Memory, the, 262 
Brightly hast thou fled, 92 
Bruce, the Heart of, 108 
Burial in the Desert, the, 239 
Burial of William the Conqueror, 
the, 183 

Call to Battle, the, 135 
Casabianca, 23 
Cathedral Hymn, 247 
Child's First Grief, the, 179 
Cid's Funeral Procession, the, 300 
Come Away, 137 
Come Home, 295 
Communings with Thought, 203 
Corinne at the Capitol, 321 
Coronation of Inez de Castro, the, 

72 
Coronation of Tasso, the, no 
Curfew-Song of England, the, 131 

D'Assas, the Fall of, 133 
Dead, the Farewell to the, 298 
Dead, the Memory of the, 48 
Dead, the Message to the, 223 



Death and the Warrior, 46 
Death, the Hour of, 25 
Death, the Welcome to, 182 
Death-Day of Korner, the, 166 
Deathbed, Music at a, 291 
Death-Song of Alcestis, the, 121 
Deep, the Treasures of the, 65 
Delphi, the Storm of, 159 
Departed, the, 33 
Departed Spirit, to a, 107 
Desert, the Burial in the, 239 
Deserted House, the, 169 
Despondency and Aspiration, 197 
Dial of Flowers, the, 77 
Dirge at Sea, 194 
Dirge — "Calm on the bosom of 

thy God," 22 
Dirge — "Where shall we make 

her Grave," 286 
Diver, the, 104 
Dove, the Wings of the, 155 
Dreams of Heaven, 126 
Dreams, the Land of, 225 

Easter-Day in a Mountain Church- 
yard, 139 
Effigies, the, 315 
Elysium, 15 

England, the Homes of, 157 
England, the Name of, 143 
England's Dead, 19 
English Boy, the, 207 

Fair Helen of Kirkconnel, 310 

Faith of Love, the, 70 

Fall of D'Assas, the, 133 

Far Away, 90 

Farewell to the Dead, the, 298 




Index. 



355 



Festal Hour, the, 251 
Fidelity till Death, 83 
Flower of the Desert, the, 190 
Flowers, the Dial of, 77 
Forsaken Hearth, the, 153 
Fountain of Oblivion, the, 100 
Future, a Thought of the, 119 

Genius Singing to Love, 88 
Gertrude, or Fidelity till Death, 83 
Graves of a Household, the, 35 
Graves of Martyrs, the, 258 

Haunted Ground, 255 

Haunted House, the, 278 

Heart of Bruce in Melrose Abbey, 

the, 108 
Heaven, Dreams of, 126 
Helen of Kirkconnel, 310 
He never smiled again, 62 
Home, the Voice of, to the Prodi- 
gal, 260 
Home of Love, the, 187 
Homes of England, the, 157 
Hour of Death, the, 25 
Hour of Prayer, the, 151 
Household, the Graves of a, 35 
Huguenot's Farewel-]. the, 220 

If thou hast crushed a Flower, 193 
Image in the Heart, the, 319 
Inez de Castro, the Coronation of, 

72 
Invocation — "Answer me, burning 

stars," 91 
Invocation, the — "Oh! art thou 

still on earth," 85 
Ivan the Czar, 163 
Ivy Song, the, 66 

' Juana, 347 

Kindred Hearts, 257 

Kbrner, the Death-Day of, 166 

Lady of Provence, the, 264 
Land, a Voyager's Dream of, 293 
! Land of Dreams, the, 225 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, 

the, 93 
Last Rites, 78 
Last Song of Sappho, the, 86 



Let her depart, 333 ■ 
Let us depart, 213 
Life, the Prayer for, 180 
Lonely Bird, the, 309 
Lost Pleiad, the, 26 
Love, the Faith of, 70 
Love, the Home of, 187 
Lyre and Flower, the, 137 
Lyre's Lament, the, 173 

Magic Glass, the, 230 
Marguerite of France, 56 
Marshal Schwerin's Grave, 244 
Martyrs, the Graves of, 258 
Meeting of the Ships, the, 196 
Memory, the Boon of, 262 
Memory of the Dead, the, 48 
Message to the Dead, the, 223 
Messenger Bird, the, 14 
Mirror in the Deserted Hall, the, 

241 
Morgarten, Song of the Battle of, 

343 
Mother's Litany, a, 205 
Mountain Winds, to the, 307 
Muffled Drum, the, 192 
Music at a Deathbed, 291 
Music from Shore, 336 

Name of England, the, 143 
Nature's Farewell, 271 
Near thee, still near thee, 130 
Night, the Song of, 171 
Night-blowing Flowers, 312 
Night Hymn at Sea, 206 
Nightingale's Death - Song, the, 

237 

No More, 118 

O ye hours, 128 

O ye voices gone, 195 

O ye voices round my own hearth 

singing, 55 
O'er the far blue mountains, 334 
Oh ! droop thou not, 245 
Oh ! Skylark, for thy wing, 129 
Old Norway, 311 
Orphan, to an, 112 
Our Daily Paths, 147 

Palmer, the, 125 
Palm-Tree, the, 95 



356 



Index, 



Paradise, a Thought of, 145 
Parting of Summer, the, 296 
Parting Ship, the, 323 
Parting Song, a, 176 
Parting Words, 317 
Passing away, 45 
Penitent's Return, a, 211 
Pilgrim Fathers, the Landing of 

the, 93 
Poet's Dying Hymn, a, 339 
Prayer, the Hour of, 151 
Prayer at Sea after Victory, 337 
Prayer for Life, the, 180 
Prayer in the Wilderness, the, 215 
Prayer of Affection, a, 144 
Procession, the, 282 
Prodigal,. Voice of Home to the, 

260 
Provence, the Lady of, 264 
Psyche borne by Zephyrs to the 

Island of Pleasure, 29 

Requiem of Genius, the, 327 
Return, the, 222 
Revellers, the, 350 
Rose, a Song of the, 68 
Ruin, the, 232 

Sabbath Sonnet, 352 

Sadness and Mirth, 114 

St Cecilia attended by Angels, for 

a Picture of, 280 
Sappho, the Last Song of, 86 
Schwerin's, Marshal, Grave, 244 
Sea, the Sound of the, 21 
Second-Sight, 274 
Silent Multitude, the, 116 
Sleeper, the, 175 
Song of Night, the, 171 
Song of the Rose, a, 68 
Sonnet, Sabbath, 313 
Sound of the Sea, the, 21 
Spirit's Mysteries, the, 305 
Spirit's Return, a, 36 
Spring, the Voice of, 11 
Storm of Delphi, the, 159 
Storm-Painter in his Dungeon, the, 

3 1 
Stranger's Heart, the, 227 
Stream set free, the, 242 






Subterranean Stream, the, 329 
Summer, the Parting of, 296 
Summer's Call, the, 284 
Sunbeam, the, 102 
Swan and the Skylark, the, 288 

Tasso and his Sister, 331 
Lasso's Coronation, no 
Thought, Communings with, 203 
Thought of Paradise, a, 145 
Thought of the Future, a, 119 
Traveller at the Source of the Nile, 

the, 313 
Treasures of the Deep, the, 65 
Triumphant Music, 273 
Trumpet, the, 82 
Two Homes, the, 304 
Two Monuments, the, 217 
Two Voices, the, 27 

Vaudois Mountaineers, Hymn of 

the, 209 
Victor, the, 60 
Vigil of Arms, the, 51 
Voice of Home to the Prodigal, 

the, 260 
Voice of Spring, the, n 
Voice of the Waves, the, 53 
Voice of the Wind, the, 235 
Voyager's Dream of Land, a, 293 

Wakening, the, 152 

Wanderer and the Night-Flowers, 

the, 186 
Wandering Wind, the, 285 
Water-Lily, the, 150 
Waves, the Voice of the, 53 
We return no more, 76 
Welcome to Death, the, 182 
Wilderness, the Prayer in the, 

215 
William the Conqueror, the Burial 

of, 183 
Wind, the Voice of the, 235 
Wind, the Wandering, 285 
Winds, to the Mountain, 307 
Wings of the Dove, the, 155 
Woman and Fame, 177 
Woman on the Field of Battle, 228 
Wreck, the, 80 







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